'MOMMA' 

AND  OTHER  UNIMPORTANT  PEOPLE 


BOOKS  BY 
RUPERT   HUGHES 

MOMMA,  AND  OTHER  UNIMPORTANT  PEOPLE 

WHAT'S  THE  WORLD  COMING  TO? 

THE  CUP  OF  FURY 

CLIPPED  WINGS 

EMPTY   POCKETS 

THE  FAIRY  DETECTIVE 

IN    A    LITTLE    TOWN 

THE   LAST  ROSE   OF  SUMMER 

LONG    EVER    AGO 

THE  OLD  NEST 

THE  THIRTEENTH   COMMANDMENT 

THE   UNPARDONABLE    SIN 

VE  CAN'T  HAVE   EVERYTHING 

WHAT  WILL  PEOPLE   SAY? 


HARPER  &   BROTHERS,    NEW  YORK 
ESTABLISHED    1817 


"MOMMA" 

AND  OTHER 
UNIMPORTANT  PEOPLE 


BY 


RUPERT   HUGHES 

Author  of 

"WHAT'S  THE    WORLD   COMING  TO?" 

"WHAT      WILL      PEOPLE      SAY?" 

"THE  CUP  OF  FURY"  ETC. 


HARPER  V  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 


MOMMA  AND  OTHER  UNIMPORTANT  PEOPLE 


Copyright,  1920,  by  Harper   &    Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  November,  1020 

L-U 


CONTENTS 

I.  "MOMMA" i 

II.  THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 33 

III.  READ  IT  AGAIN 60 

IV.  THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 78 

V.  INNOCENCE 121 

VI.  THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 152 

VII.  YELLOW  CORDS 193 

VIII.  THE  SPLIT 213 

IX.  A  STORY  I  CAN'T  WRITE 237 

X.  THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 256 

XI.  THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 289 

XII.  THE  DAUNTLESS  BOOKKEEPER 317 

XIII.  You  HADN'T  OUGHT  To 336 


ne 

&  • 


*  MOMMA' 

AND  OTHER  UNIMPORTANT  PEOPLE 


'MOMMA' 

AND   OTHER    UNIMPORTANT    PEOPLE 

I 
MOMMA 

MDMMA  was  sick,  right  sick.  Momma  was 
awful  sick !  Momma  looked  like  she  was  going 
to  die  any  minute.  And  she  didn't  care  if  she  did. 
She  up  and  as  good  as  told  Poppa  that. 

Poppa  was  scared  almost  to  death  when  he  real 
ized  it.  He  was  all  alone  with  her,  and  had  none 
of  the  childern  to  talk  to  about  it ;  though,  for  the  mat 
ter  of  that,  Momma  and  Poppa  had  never  told  the 
childern  about  their  own  ailments.  And  now  the 
childern  had  growed  up  and  vamoosed.  All  that  was 
left  of  the  fact  that  there  ever  had  been  any  childern 
round  the  place  was  the  two  old  names  Momma  and 
Poppa  that  the  old  folks  had  caught  by  contagion  and 
got  to  calling  each  other  by  from  hearing  themselves 
called  them  by  the  childern  when  they  were  childern. 

Momma  and  Poppa  had  been  drifting  down  life 
like  a  pair  of  old  mud  turtles  floating  south  on  a 
water-logged  log.  And  now  all  of  a  sudden  one  of 
them  felt  that  the  other'n  was  going  to  roll  off  into 
the  muddy  water  and  sink  downward,  backward, 
dead ! 


"MOMMA" 

Perhaps  the  poor  turtles  know  and  grieve  and 
mourn  to  the  full  capacity  of  their  tight  shells. 

But  Poppa  was  a  human,  gifted  with  sympathy., 
He  was  old  acquaintances  with  grief  of  every  sort, 
a  pitiful  postgraduate  in  all  a  man  knows  who  has 
been  a  lover,  a  husband,  and  a  father,  and  has  seen 
children  born  from  one  pain  and  ache  to  another 
and  another,  who  has  seen  some  of  his  own  little 
children  die,  or  pray  for  death  in  the  long  proces 
sion  of  disappointments  and  thwarted  hopes  that 
begin  with  the  first  irretrievable  rattle  lost  over  the 
edge  of  the  crib,  and  pass  on  to  the  rainy  holidays, 
the  sunny  school  days,  the  warm  Christmases,  cracked 
dolls,  lost  games,  indignities  from  parents  who  mis 
understand  and  spank,  from  sweethearts  who  mis 
understand  and  flirt,  and  so  on  and  so  forth  to  the 
dreary,  shabby  camp-follower  sorrows  that  trudge 
along  at  the  tail  end  of  the  parade. 

Poppa's  habit  had  been  to  take  things  as  they 
come,  because,  as  somebody  said,  that's  the  only 
way  they  come.  He  had  grown  so  jaded  with  exist 
ence  that  he  became  a  veteran  Horatio,  who,  as 
Will  Shakespeare  said,  "fortune's  buffets  and  re 
wards  hath  ta'en  with  equal  thanks." 

Nothing  had  excited  him  much  of  late  at  the  store, 
at  home,  at  church,  the  lodge,  or  in  the  newspapers. 
As  he  had  worn  what  seemed  to  be  the  same  suit  of 
clothes  for  years,  so  his  face  had  worn  the  same  suit 
of  expressions.  It  was  hard  to  tell  his  smile  from 
his  scowl.  Funny  things  all  had  a  touch  of  misfor 
tune  in  them  for  somebody,  and  sad  things  were  all 
kind  of  funny,  so  the  same  twitch  at  the  muscles 
about  his  mouth  served  for  an  acknowledgment  of 
everything  unusual. 


"MOMMA" 

But  now,  when  Momma  almost  wisht  she  was 
dead,  that  last  dreadful  word  twitched  Poppa's 
very  heart.  He  felt  as  if  in  the  calm  slumber  of 
habitude  somebody  had  reached  into  his  breast  and 
given  his  heart  a  yank.  And  it  shivered  and  rattled 
as  an  old  doorbell  clamors  pulled  hard  at  midnight 
by  somebody  crying:  "Wake  up!  Your  house  is  on 
fire!" 

Poppa  woke  up.  Instinct  told  him  that  he  must 
save  Momma  and  himself  from  the  incredible  disas 
ter  of  her  death.  His  business  worries  had  kept  him 
from  noticing  the  little  symptoms  of  her  decline, 
though  she  had  stopped  quarreling  with  him  and 
had  simply  quarreled  with  life,  with  everything — 
the  food,  the  neighbors,  her  clothes,  the  weather,  her 
stummick,  her  head,  her  eyes,  her  feet,  her  hands, 
her  appetite,  her  looks — she  even  complained  of  her 
looks ! 

And  now,  as  if  scales  had  been  scraped  off  his  eyes, 
Poppa  saw  that  Momma  didn't  look  good.  She 
didn't  look  a  bit  good.  She  looked  something 
scandalous. 

Poppa  belonged  to  a  lodge  and  he  had  gone  to 
numberless  funerals.  Yet  he  had  hardly  even  imag 
ined  that  some  day  his  fellow  members  might  in 
turn  come  to  his  house,  all  dressed  up  with  sashes 
and  plumes  and  swords,  to  march  alongside  the  black 
wagon  that  should  carry  his  one  woman  in  a  box  to 
a  ditch. 

As  if  some  one  had  set  a  moving  picture  going 
against  the  wall  of  his  own  setting  room,  he  saw  the 
whole  thing,  and  he  shuddered  back  from  it  with  a 
cry  that  struck  inward  and  cut  downward  and  stuck. 
He  had  a  fishbone  in  his  throat. 

3 


"MOMMA" 

He  became  suddenly  young  and  arrantly  afraid. 
He  wanted  to  run  to  his  wife  and  cling  to  her  and 
beg  her  not  to  think  of  such  things.  But  he  had 
given  up  the  habit  of  hugging  Momma  or  taking 
her  into  his  lap  or  sitting  on  the  arm  of  her  chair, 
since  the  ancient  days  when  the  first  child  began 
to  take  notice. 

He  wanted  to  go  back  to  the  old  ways,  but  it  would 
have  looked  foolish,  and  the  two  frumps  had  been 
afraid  of  each  other's  love  for  years  and  years. 

He  did  nothing  and  said  nothing;  but  he  did  a 
heap  of  thinking.  "Heap"  was  the  word,  for  his 
thoughts  were  like  a  pile  of  dead  leaves,  tarnished, 
crumpled  brown  leaves,  that  had  been  green  and 
radiant  and  breathing  once. 

His  thoughts  were  a  heap  of  autumnal  rubbish  set 
on  fire.  Red  torment  ran  through  them,  and  they 
writhed  and  twisted  as  if  a  new  life  had  come  back 
to  them  just  that  they  might  suffer  a  little  more. 

The  terror  stung  him  to  a  determination.  "I'll 
call  the  doctor,"  he  said.  He  rose  from  his  chair 
and  shuffled  to  the  telephone.  Momma  ran  after 
him  and  dragged  his  hands  down,  crying:  "I  don't 
want  to  see  that  old  fool.  I'll  go  jump  in  the  river 
if  you  send  for  him.  I  couldn't  stand  the  sight  of 
him." 

"When  a  woman's  too  sick  to  see  the  doctor," 
Poppa  said,  "it's  high  time  somebody  called  him  in." 

He  backed  round  and  bunted  her  away  with 
the  minimum  of  grace  and  the  maximum  of  devotion, 
and  held  her  at  a  distance  until  he  got  the  number. 

Momma  flopped  helplessly  into  a  chair  and  cried 
like  a  petulant  little  girl,  while  Poppa  ordered  the 
doctor  to  put  on  his  shoes  and  come  right  over. 

4 


"MOMMA" 

don't  feel  a  bit  good  and  I'm  a  sight!  Don't  show 
me  to  any  of  your  swell  Terra  Hut  friends,  for  I'll 
disgrace  you." 

Hattie  had  hard  sledding  before  her.  Her  mother 
did  not  even  want  to  cheer  up.  She  wanted  to  be 
sick,  and  she  doubled  her  misery  by  bewailing  the 
fact  that  she  couldn't  throw  off  her  gloom.  She  tried 
to  smile  once  or  twice,  but  Hattie  begged  her  not  to. 

Since  Momma  would  neither  go  calling  nor  receive 
callers,  she  was  not  easy  to  entertain.  She  was 
ashamed  of  her  shabby  clothes  and  her  dowdy  ap 
pearance,  and  so  was  Hattie. 

Hattie  would  not  admit  it,  though  she  did  say  that 
Poppa,  with  all  his  money,  ought  to  dress  her  up 
better.  Poor  Poppa  had  tried  to.  The  average 
American  husband  does  not  often  get  the  chance  to 
complain  of  his  wife's  thrift  in  clothes,  but  Mr. 
Lundy,  little  as  he  noticed  such  things,  had  finally 
urged  Momma  to  spend  a  little  more  money  on  duds, 
now  that  the  children  were  buying  their  own.  But 
his  well-meant  hints  had  only  depressed  her  the 
more,  and  she  had  retorted  that  he  was  sick  and 
tired  of  her  and  her  old  face. 

He  had  dropped  the  subject.  Hattie  had  no  better 
success.  All  that  she  succeeded  in  accomplishing  was 
a  round  of  the  Terra  Haute  physicians — especially 
of  those  frightful  personages  known  as  "specialists." 
Each  of  these  found  his  specialty  in  Momma,  and 
went  after  it.  One  of  them  got  away  with  a  large 
number  of  her  teeth  before  she  could  fight  him  off. 

Others  offered  to  remove  various  parts  of  her,  but 
she  declined  to  be  separated  from  any  more  of  her 
fixtures. 

She  reduced  Hattie's  general  practitioner  almost 

7 


"MOMMA" 

to  nervous  prostration,  and  at  last,  in  order  to  get 
her  off  his  hands  and  off  her  daughter's  nerves,  he 
heartily  recommended  a  New  York  specialist,  Doc 
tor  Courtneidge,  who  had  the  monopoly  on  a  very 
abstruse  operation  dealing  with  the  pancreas  or  some 
thing  that  Momma  didn't  even  know  she  had. 

She  was  quite  overawed  at  finding  herself  the 
proud  possessor  of  such  a  thing.  She  felt  like  an 
old  watch  that  has  suddenly  learned  it  has  had 
jeweled  movements  all  these  years.  But  after  a  few 
hours  of  being  interested  in  herself  she  slumped 
again  and  said  she  guessed  she'd  take  her  old  pan 
creas  back  to  Carthage  with  her.  She'd  got  along 
with  it  so  far,  and,  seeing  as  she'd  denied  herself  a 
trip  to  New  York  all  her  life  for  fun,  she  certainly 
wa'n't  going  all  that  ways  to  let  a  doctor  poke  a 
knife  into  her. 

Hattie  fumed  and  bullied  in  vain,  for  a  day  or  two, 
then  she  fired  off  a  telegram  to  Poppa  to  come  over 
at  once. 

Poppa  was  putting  through  a  big  land  deal  and 
the  telegram  nearly  jolted  him  out  of  his  wits.  He 
would  not  wait  to  extend  his  option.  He  ran  down 
to  the  station  and  swung  on  a  train  just  pulling  out. 
He  did  not  even  stop  for  the  collar,  toothbrush,  and 
nightgown  that  constituted  his  usual  going-away 
equipment. 

He  spent  a  horrible  night  in  the  smoking  car,  sleep 
ing  among  his  distorted  limbs  like  a  wrecked  grass 
hopper.  At  Terre  Haute  he  took  a  taxicab  to  Hattie's 
house,  and  was  in  such  a  mental  and  facial  disarray 
when  he  rang  the  bell  that  the  maid  who  answered 
it  slammed  the  door  on  him  and  ran  to  tell  her  mis 
tress  that  there  was  a  crazy  man  on  the  porch. 

8 


"MOMMA" 

Hattie  peeked  through  the  little  side  window  and 
recognized  her  father,  and  flung  open  the  door  and 
her  arms  to  him. 

He  expected  to  find  Momma  on  her  deathbed,  but 
she  was  at  breakfast,  crying  into  her  rolled  oats. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter  of  you,  Momma?'* 
he  gasped. 

"Nothing's  the  matter  of  me,"  she  snapped. 
"What  on  earth's  the  matter  of  you?  Had  your 
breakfast?  Seddown!  And — Hattie,  could  you  ask 
your  girl  to  fry  him  a  negg — turned  over,  you  re 
member;  and  if  the  coffee's  out,  here  you  can  have 
the  rest  of  mine." 

Poppa  sank  into  a  chair  and  consented  to  break 
his  fast  while  the  news  was  broken  to  him.  The 
word  "pancreas"  dazed  him.  It  sounded  like  some 
thing  for  breakfast  till  Hattie  explained.  Then  he 
was  convinced.  There  is  a  power  about  a  new  word 
that  solves  all  mysteries  for  most  people,  and  Poppa 
was  very  much  like  most  people. 

When  Hattie  had  explained  that  Doctor  Appleyard 
himself  had  settled  upon  the  pancreas  and  its  mal 
functioning,  or  something  like  that,  as  the  secret  of 
Momma's  indomitable  obscurities,  Poppa  set  his  jaw. 

"When's  first  train  to  N'York?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  not  goin',  I  tell  you,"  Momma  pealed.  "I'm 
not  goin'  one  step." 

"You  are  goin'!"  Poppa  stormed.  "Why  ain't 
you  goin'?" 

"Because  it  costs  too  much  money." 

That  is  a  thing  a  man  likes  to  say  for  himself. 

He  cannot  endure  to  hear  anyone  else  tell  it  to  him. 

It  is  insulting.     When  the  children  were  young, 

Momma  had  always  said  it  first  when  she  wanted 

2  9 


"MOMMA" 

to  make  sure  of  his  consenting  to  an  expenditure. 
Things  she  would  never  have  browbeaten  or  wept 
him  into  permitting,  she  could  always  force  him  to 
force  her  to  accept  by  that  approach — using  the  word 
" force"  as  card  tricksters  do  when  they  deftly  per 
mit  you  to  drag  from  them  the  one  card  that  will 
work  the  trick. 

But  now  Momma  was  not  stacking  the  cards. 
She  had  economized  for  so  many  decades  that  money 
had  become  a  thing  sacrosanct.  Unwittingly  she 
had  dealt  Poppa  the  deadliest  humiliation  in  her 
power,  for  he  was  what  Carthage  people  called 
"rich";  he  had  lands  and  lands  in  his  own  and 
Momma's  name,  and  big  sums  out  on  mortgages. 

A  standard  of  living  that  had  been  forced  on  him 
by  his  early  poverty  had  sufficed  him  in  his  gradual 
wealth. 

A  new  suit  of  clothes  was  a  nuisance.  Extra 
servants  were  like  unwelcome  guests  that  never  went 
home.  The  simplest  food  everlastingly  repeated  was 
all  his  stomach  craved. 

Momma  would  as  soon  have  had  the  measles  as 
a  limousine,  and  jewels  on  her  fingers  would  have 
crippled  her  like  inflammatory  rheumatism.  The 
changing  styles  of  Paris  interested  her  as  much  as 
the  tides  of  Barnegat.  She  had  not  changed  the 
manner  of  wearing  her  hair  since  she  was  a  mother 
for  the  first  time,  and  her  dresses  were  made  by  a 
sewing  woman  who  was  more  interested  in  the  gossip 
of  the  families  she  moved  among  than  in  the  daily 
hints  from  Paris. 

With  money  pouring  in  in  amounts  whose  impor 
tance  neither  husband  nor  wife  ever  thought  of 
translating  into  luxuries,  and  seeping  out  in  a  slow 

10 


"MOMMA" 

trickle,  the  old  couple  had  come  near  to  being  misers 
without  dreaming  of  stinginess. 

This  last  big  land  deal  of  Poppa's  had  brought  him 
to  a  sudden  realization  that  he  was  a  pretty  big  fel 
low.  The  banks  had  begun  to  turn  to  him  with 
opportunities  for  large  turnovers,  and  bonds  were 
offered  him  in  bundles. 

And  so  when  Momma  implied  that  a  trip  to  New 
York,  to  save  her  life,  maybe,  was  beyond  his  means, 
he  was  hurt  and  enraged,  and  in  his  anger  he  rose  to 
an  eloquence  of  gallantry  he  never  would  have 
achieved  in  a  more  temperate  mood. 

"Too  much  money,  hey?  You  think  you  can't 
afford  it,  do  you?  Well,  let  me  tell  you  that  I  can 
afford  to  send  you  to  any  town  that  anybody  else 
can  afford  to  go  to.  And  if  that  old  pankers'  doctor 
has  got  any  patients  at  tall  besides  millionaires,  and 
if  he  don't  charge  more  'n  a  hunderd  thousand  dol 
lars  a  patient,  you  can  have  the  best  operation  he's 
got  in  his  shop." 

Momma  braced  up  a  bit  at  this  and  gave  Hattie 
a  proud  look,  as  much  as  to  say,  "You  haven't  mar 
ried  the  only  successful  man  in  the  world,  Mrs. 
Eppes."  But  she  shook  her  head. 

"You  ain't  goin'  to  bankrupt  yourself  shippin'  me 
to  any  doctor,  for  I'm  not  worth  it.  And  that's  all 
there  is  about  it." 

"Not  worth  it?"  Poppa  cried,  with  the  fervor,  if 
not  the  rhetoric,  of  a  Romeo.  "Well,  if  you  ain't 
worth  it,  I'd  like  to  know  who  is?  All  I  got  is  none 
too  much  to  spend  on  you.  And  if  I  had  ten 
times  as  much,  what  'd  it  be  worth  if  I  lost  you, 
Momma?" 

This  was  so  poetic  and  beautiful  that  Momma  had 

n 


"MOMMA" 

to  get  mad  or  break  down  and  beller,  so  she  put  up 
a  big  fight. 

"Oh,  that's  all  very  well  for  you  to  say,  but  what  it 
it  comes  down  to  is,  you're  sending  me  away  to  die  like 
a  dawg  outside  somewheres ;  you  want  to  treat  me  the 
way  they  do  the  old  rats  that  they  give  a  poison  to 
that  guarantees  they  don't  die  in  the  house." 

"Aw,  Momma!"  was  all  Poppa  could  groan.  But 
Hattie  lit  into  her  mother  with  all  the  vigor  of  a  true 
and  dutiful  American  child. 

' '  Why,  Momma  Lundy !  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself.  You  must  be  out  of  your  mind  to  talk 
thataway  when  Poppa  is  so  nice  and  so  worried." 

"That's  right!  Pick  on  me!"  Momma  moaned, 
taking  unfair  refuge  in  cowardly  tears.  ' '  But  I  notice 
nobody  is  offering  to  go  to  New  York  with  me." 

Hattie  spoke  first.  "I'd  go  in  a  minute  if  I  could 
leave  the  children,  but  with  little  Eddie  having  his 
tonsils  removed  to-morrow  and  Fannie's  chickenpox 
just  coming  out — " 

Poppa  sighed.  "I'll  go,  of  course,  if  you  want 
me  to." 

Momma  saw  the  reluctance  in  his  assent,  and, 
though  she  knew  that  he  had  some  strong  business 
reason  behind  it,  her  cantankerous  mood  took  um 
brage  at  it. 

"What  'd  I  tell  you?  Well,  I  will  go.  I'll  go  all 
by  myself,  to  some  lonely  old  hotel,  and  if  I  never 
come  back  nobody  will  know  the  difference." 

"Of  course  you  sha'n't  go  by  yourself,  honey," 

Poppa  protested.     "I  was  only  thinkin'  that  if  I 

could  go  home  for  a  while  I  could  set  my  business 

to  rights  and  prob'ly  close  up  a  big  deal  I  had  on 

twhen  I  got  Hattie's  wire.     If  I  was  to  put  that 

12 


"MOMMA" 

through,  it  would  net  me  a  couple  o'  thousand,  and 
that  would  go  a  long  ways  toward  paying  for  your 
operation  most  likely ;  and  then  I  could  come  on  and 
be  with  you  whilst  you  was  convalescing;  and  then, 
if  anything  was  to  happen  to  me,  the  business  would 
be  all  right  and  I'd  leave  you  and  the  childern  fixed." 

This  was  the  simple,  humble  statement  of  his  mind 
in  the  matter;  that  solemn  devotion  to  his  work 
that  makes  a  priestcraft  and  an  art  of  business.  Like 
all  successful  creators,  he  consecrated  himself  to  his 
work  and  sacrificed  himself  to  its  completion.  No 
poet  or  sculptor  could  have  a  holier  or  purer  ambi 
tion  for  perfection  and  a  flawless  conclusion,  and 
there  was  no  more  thought  of  selfishness  or  greed. 

Momma  understood  and  loved  him,  but  the  disease 
in  her  soul  took  offense  at  everything;  and,  though 
she  realized  the  selflessness  of  his  motive,  she  took 
a  perverse  delight  in  distorting  it. 

Then  ensued  one  of  those  duels  in  which  each  took 
the  wrong  side  with  a  kind  of  devoted  insincerity. 
Poppa  franticalty  declared  that  he  would  go,  and 
nothing  should  stop  him,  and  she  as  frantically  de 
clared  that  if  he  went  she  wouldn't. 

Momma  insisted  that  she  hadn't  a  friend  on  earth 
or  in  New  York,  and  she  would  rather  go  back  and 
die  in  her  own  bed  than  die  alone  in  New  York. 

This  reminded  her  distraught  husband  that  she 
did  have  a  friend  in  New  York — her  old  playmate, 
Ella  Jemison,  who  had  married  Sam  Killip  and  gone 
to  New  York  and  fortune. 

"Oh  yes,  I'm  likely  to  ask  rich  folks  like  her  to 
take  me  in!"  Momma  sobbed.  "She  wouldn't  look 
at  me.  She's  forgotten  she  ever  knew  me,  though 
we  are  kind  of  second  cousins  by  marriage." 

13 


"MOMMA" 

"Well,  her  husband  hasn't  forgot  he  ever  knew 
me,"  Poppa  snapped.  "Didn't  I  have  a  letter  from 
him  only  the  other  day,  and  didn't  he  say  his  wife 
asked  to  be  kindly  remembered  to  you?" 

"Sam  Killip  wrote  to  you!"  Momma  cried. 
"How'd  rich  folks  like  him  come  to  write  to  you?" 

Poppa  winced  again  at  being  a  prophet  without 
honor  in  his  own  home.  ' '  Oh,  I  guess  he  ain't  the  only 
rich  folks  in  the  world.  He  said  he  saw  I  was  a  direc 
tor  in  the  Third  National  Bank,  and  he  wanted  to  en 
large  his  capital,  and  he  could  offer  me  a  chance  to  git 
in  on  the  ground  floor  of  a  patent  locomotive  stoker 
he  was  pushing.  He  said  he  was  a  little  short  of  cash. ' ' 

"Sam  Killip  short  of  cash!" 

"Rich  folks  are  always  short  of  cash,"  Poppa  ex 
plained.  "That's  why  they're  rich.  The  minute 
they  git  any  cash  they  put  it  into  something  and 
make  it  work.  I  was  going  to  tell  Sam  I  couldn't  see 
my  way  clear,  but  if  Ella  will  look  after  you  a  little 
I'll  help  him  out." 

This  put  a  new  face  on  the  matter.  Instead  of 
going  to  New  York  as  a  decrepit,  friendless  villager, 
imploring  the  pity  of  an  old  acquaintance  on  whom 
her  only  claim  was  an  old  acquaintance,  she  was 
offered  a  chance  to  float  in  upon  her  as  a  bearer  of 
rich  gifts.  She  smiled  evenly  and  thought  of  the 
Three  Wise  Men. 

"I'd  go  there  as  a  kind  of  a  Mrs.  Magi,  then?" 

"Yes!  Exactly!  And  I  guess  she'd  treat  you  like 
a  grand  duchess,  or  something." 

"Oh  no,  I  don't  see  how  I  could,"  Momma  sighed, 
slumping  again,  too  deeply  dejected  to  reach  out 
and  pluck  the  golden  apple. 

But  Poppa  had  more  insight  than  anyone  suspect- 

14 


"MOMMA" 

ed,  and  he  had  caught  the  glint  of  interest  in  Mora- 
ma's  eye.  It  was  the  first  sparkle  he  had  seen  there 
for  weeks,  and,  though  it  had  been  quenched  at  once, 
it  emboldened  him  to  tyranny.  He  got  to  his  feet 
and  left  the  house  with  a  maddening  mysteriousness. 

He  was  inspired  to  the  amazing  audacity  of  calling 
Mr.  Killip  on  the  long-distance  telephone.  He  went 
to  the  hotel  so  that  Momma  could  not  interrupt  him. 
When  he  had  his  New  York  victim  by  the  ear  he 
told  him  the  whole  story,  and  Killip,  who  was  still 
human,  though  a  New  Yorker,  was  as  effusive  in 
welcoming  Momma  as  in  accepting  Poppa's  addi 
tional  offer  of  money  enough  to  stoke  the  stoker 
project  to  a  hearty  glow. 

Poppa  went  back  and  told  Momma  what  he  had 
done,  and  told  her  to  pack  up.  Her  next  obstacle 
was: 

"But  I  got  no  clo'es  here.  I'll  have  to  go  home 
and  pack,  and  I  'ain't  just  got  the  stren'th." 

"You  got  no  clothes  at  home,  either,"  Hattie  put 
in.  "You  can  go  downtown  with  me  and  get  you 
some  decent  things.  You  can't  go  to  New  York 
looking  like  an  old  farmer." 

This  was  the  wrong  note.  Momma  broke  her 
moorings  again. 

"I  told  you  you  was  ashamed  of  me.  I'm  not  fit 
to  be  seen  in  Terra  Hut,  let  alone  in  New  York.  I'm 
simply  not  going  to  New  York  to  make  an  exhabition 
of  myself  and  make  Ellar  Killip  turn  up  her  nose 
at  me." 

This  battle  had  lasted  only  a  few  hours  longer, 
when  a  telegram  arrived  from  Ella  herself: 

Overjoyed  dearest  Mattie  to  learn  that  you  will  visit  New 
York  though  greatly  distressed  to  learn  of  your  indisposition. 

IS 


"MOMMA" 

You  must  come  to  us  of  course.  Just  let  me  know  the'train  and 
I  will  meet  you  whatever  the  hour.  I  know  Doctor  Courtnedge 
very  well  and  he  is  an  old  darling.  Love  to  you  and  your  hus 
band  from  us  both. 

ELLA. 

The  gracious  warmth  of  this  brought  tears  to  the 
eyes  of  the  poor  derelict,  but  she  masked  her  sniffle 
in  a  sniff. 

"  Where 'd  she  learn  all  those  swell  words?" 

Hattie  told  her  mother,  as  usual,  that  she  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  herself,  and  Momma  was. 

She  prolonged  her  resistance  to  the  point  where 
Poppa  grew  desperate  enough  to  groan. 

"Well,  you  do  as  you're  a  mind  to.  Seein'  you're 
strong  enough  to  fight  forever,  you  go  home  and  run 
the  business  and  I'll  go  to  the  hospital  my  own  self." 

"Run  the  business!  That's  all  you  think  of!"  she 
retorted,  with  a  sublime  non  sequitur.  "Put  me  on 
the  cattle  train  and  ship  me  off  to  the  slaughterhouse. 
Ella  still  loves  me,  anyway,  even  if  nobody  else  does, 
and  she'll  see  to  it  I  get  buried  decent,  and  that's 
all  I  got  a  right  to  expect." 

Poppa  dashed  out  and  bathed  his  hot  head  in 
cold  water  before  he  went  to  the  ticket  office.  He 
nearly  bit  the  head  off  the  agent,  just  to  show  that 
he  had  some  manhood  left. 

He  was  never  quite  the  same  man  again  after  he 
got  Momma  on  the  train  at  last.  He  bade  her  a 
despondent  farewell,  feeling  sure  that  he  would  never 
see  her  again.  And,  in  a  sense,  he  never  did.  .  .  . 

Going  to  the  city  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  espe 
cially  at  such  a  time  in  her  life,  was  an  adventure 
and  a  half  for  Momma. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  was  advancing  toward 

16 


"MOMMA" 

the  knives  of  a  surgeon  who  was  her  forlorn  hope, 
she  could  not  but  feel  a  certain  elation.  She  was 
experiencing  what  Victor  Hugo  called  a  "new 
shudder." 

She  was  almost  more  afraid  of  Ella  Killip  and  her 
splendor  than  of  the  pancreatic  specialist.  She  was 
fairly  smothered  with  dread  of  facing  the  woman 
she  had  not  seen  since  Ella  was  a  gangling,  noisy, 
small-town  tomboy,  all  freckles  and  giggles  and 
gawkiness. 

She  foresaw  Ella  as  a  sort  of  vast  and  glittering 
Queen  Victoria,  fattened  on  rich  food  and  studded 
with  jewels.  She  saw  herself  as  a  shabby  farm  wife 
whom  Ella  would  probably  give  one  glance  and  flee 
from  with  disdain. 

When  she  reached  New  York  at  last,  her  first 
struggle  was  with  a  red-capped  ruffian  who  tried  to 
steal  her  valise.  Her  next  struggle  was  with  her 
terror  of  the  meeting  with  Ella.  If  she  had  known 
how  to  get  a  train  back  to  Carthage  she  would  have 
taken  it.  But  the  crowd  hustled  her  up  the  plat 
form  and  she  lugged  a  soul  heavier  than  her  rusty 
hand  bag. 

No  one  had  met  her  at  the  train,  and  she  was  mor 
bid  enough  to  hope  that  Ella  had  missed  her.  But 
inside  the  station  she  found  a  crowd  held  back  by  a 
rope,  and  paused  to  stare  at  the  staring  eyes. 

She  saw  no  one  that  suggested  the  Ella  she  had 
planned,  but  a  tall,  slim  creature,  dressed  like  an 
actress,  in  glistening  silk,  came  forward  hesitantly. 
She  looked  young,  and  yet  she  didn't.  Her  hair  was 
hidden  by  a  hat  whose  brim  seemed  to  have  been 
flourished  by  the  impatient,  whimsical  stroke  of  a 
painter's  brush. 

17 


"MOMMA" 

From  this  dressmaker's  model  came  a  voice  that 
startled  the  valise  from  Momma's  hand,  for  the 
voice  came  out  of  childhood,  and  it  was  the  voice  of 
Ella.  It  sang  a  new  tune,  but  it  was  the  old  voice. 
It  said,  timidly,  tentatively :  ' '  Mattie  ?  Is  it  you  ? ' * 

Momma's  soft  old  knees  caved  in,  and  she  sat  on 
the  valise  as  she  whimpered,  "This  is  me,  but  you're 
never  Ella." 

"Oh  yes,  I  am,  my  dear,"  said  Ella,  with  a  good 
laugh,  as  she  hoisted  Momma  to  her  feet.  "I'm  the 
same  old  sixpence." 

"You  look  more  like  your  own  daughter,  if  you 
have  one." 

"Oh,  I  have  one — three,  in  fact.  But — come 
along,  you  old  dear." 

She  nodded  to  a  redcap,  who  took  the  valise  and 
followed  her  as  she  led  Momma  through  the  station. 
Momma's  dazed  eyes  supposed  they  were  taking 
a  short  cut  through  a  cathedral. 

The  Killip  limousine  was  marvelous,  but  she  ex 
pected  marvels.  She  was  a  trifle  disappointed  when 
she  reached  Ella's  home.  She  had  expected  to  drive 
through  a  royal  park  to  a  palace.  But  she  was  put 
down  at  a  house  built  jam  in  among  a  lot  of  other 
houses. 

It  was  not  half  the  size  of  Momma's  house  and 
had  no  yard  at  all  except  a  small  patch  at  the  back. 

In  place  of  a  double  row  of  stiff-necked  butlers  up 
a  grand  staircase,  there  was  one  very  pleasant  young 
man  at  the  door  and  an  awfully  nice  hired  girl  in  cap 
and  apron.  Very  friendly  she  was,  too,  and  helped 
Momma  in  the  most  folksy  way  up  to  her  room. 

Ella  came  along,  and  when  the  maid  was  sent  for 
tea  she  petted  Momma  and  stuffed  a  pillow  in  her 

18 


"MOMMA" 

back  and  then  drew  a  chair  close  up,  and  said: 
"Now,  Mattie  dear,  tell  me  all  about  it.  What  on 
earth  is  the  trouble,  you  poor  soul?" 

But  Momma  was  so  embarrassed  by  numberless 
disparities  between  herself  and  this  strange  creature 
who  had  started  life  with  even  less  advantages,  that 
she  could  not  be  at  ease. 

She  was  dazed  by  the  brilliance  of  Ella,  by  her 
blithe  yet  haughty  carriage,  her  young  skin,  slim, 
deft  hands,  youthful  alertness,  her  fashionable  voice, 
her  fashionable  politeness. 

She  saw  that  Ella's  hair  was  white,  now  that  her 
hat  was  off;  but  her  hair  was  ironed  and  fluted  and 
polished  and  dressed  as  for  a  fancy-dress  ball. 

Momma  summed  up  her  bewildered  homage,  if 
it  was  homage,  in  one  helpless  query : 

"What  makes  you  powder  your  hair,  Ella?" 

Ella  laughed  aloud.  A  little  of  the  old  boisterous- 
ness  broke  through  the  years  of  control. 

"As  my  boys  would  say,  'Whaddaya  mean,  "pow 
der  my  hair  "  ? '  That's  my  own  poor  old  gray  wool, 
damn  it!" 

Ella's  swear  word  even  had  a  fashionable  fillip! 
Momma  had  never  sworn  in  her  life,  or,  that  is, 
hardly  ever;  certainly  not  with  a  smile.  When  she 
had  reached  profane  words  she  had  used  stupid  old- 
womanish  expletives. 

But  Ella's  casual  objurgation  broke  the  ice  magi 
cally.  There  is  nothing  that  clears  the  air  of  for 
mality  like  a  little  damn. 

Momma  was  so  numb  that  it  merely  startled  her 
from  her  torpor.  She  laughed  the  first  laugh  that 
had  been  shaken  out  of  her  dust  bin  of  a  soul  for  six 
weeks. 

19 


"MOMMA" 

After  that  the  two  old  women  were  themselves 
again;  two  girls  who  had  parted  and  gone  round  the 
world  two  opposite  ways  and  come  together  at  last 
to  exchange  experiences.  Their  costumes  and  their 
dialects  had  changed  with  their  travel,  but  their 
hearts  were  as  of  old. 

Momma  had  to  hear  first  of  Ella's  amazing  expe 
riences.  This  desire  itself  was  a  miracle  of  change; 
she  had  already  forgotten  herself  for  a  while. 

Ella's  husband  came  home  before  Ella  had  finished 
her  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainment,  and  he  was 
pleasantly  surprised  and  surprising.  He  had  ex 
pected  Mattie  to  be  more  ill  than  she  was,  and  he 
had  not  expected  her  to  look  at  all  like  his  own  wife. 
He  knew  only  too  well  how  expensive  Ella's  looks 
were  and  how  different  a  life  she  led  from  the  women 
of  the  old  home  town. 

The  dinner  was  simple,  but  "awful  tasty,"  as 
Mattie  proclaimed.  She  was  astounded  to  find  her 
self  eating  with  relish.  But  the  service  was  irresist 
ible.  The  amiable  gentleman  who  handed  the  plates 
around  and  took  them  away  was  so  solicitous  about 
suggesting  to  her  the  best  morsels  that  she  would  not 
insult  him  by  refusing  anything  or  break  his  heart 
by  leaving  an  untouched  plate  for  him  to  carry  away. 

Sam  Killip  was  eager  to  know  about  all  the  friends 
and  enemies  of  his  youth,  and  remembered  so  well 
the  people  and  the  nooks  and  the  scraps  of  those 
good  old  days  that  the  dinner  went  by  like  a  wedding 
feast. 

Fortunately  the  Killip  children  were  away  at 
schools  and  house  parties,  and  Momma  was  not  sub 
jected  to  the  inspection  of  a  generation  that  found 
even  Ella  Killip  old  fashioned  and  conservative. 

20 


"MOMMA" 

When  Ella  said  she  had  given  up  trying  to  keep  up 
with  the  youngsters,  Momma  laughed  her  to  scorn 
with  a  quaint  phrase,  "Oh  yes,  to  hear  you  tell  it!" 

After  dinner  Sam  had  a  meeting  of  some  charitable 
board,  and  Ella  and  Mattie  settled  down  for  a  con 
fab.  Ella  neglected  to  mention  that  she  had  sent 
her  opera  box  to  friends  of  hers,  and  she  made  no 
allusion  to  the  fact  that  it  was  the  first  performance 
of  a  new  rdle  for  Caruso,  and  she  would  have  given 
an  eyetooth  to  hear  him. 

She  spread  Momma  out  on  what  she  called  a 
chaise-longue.  Momma  said  it  was  the  only  com 
fortable  sofa  she'd  ever  laid  on,  and  she  was  going 
to  have  one  like  it  if  it  busted  Poppa.  Momma  was 
already  planning  for  the  future !  And  thinking  of  it 
in  terms  of  comfort ! 

She  was  reluctant  to  discuss  her  famous  illness, 
but  Ella  insisted  on  knowing  the  worst. 

"Well,  it  simply  baffled  all  the  doctors,"  Momma 
said,  in  a  tone  not  altogether  boastless.  "I  don't 
know  how  to  describe  it.  It's  just  a  kind  of  gener'l 
goneness.  I  got  no  heart  for  anything — no  appatite 
for  my  vittles,  no  int'rest  in  the  house  or  church 
work  or  the  heathen  or  the  fambly.  I  don't  want  to 
go  to  bed  nights  and  I  don't  want  to  get  up  mornings. 
Always  been  a  fiend  on  house-keepin',  but  I  don't 
much  care  now  whether  things  are  in  their  place  or 
not.  Dust  don't  worry  me  like  it  used  to.  I'm  all 
dusty  myself.  No  special  aches  or  pains,  but  I  just 
don't  feel  good  anywhere. 

"Want  to  cry  all  the  time  and  I  don't  know  why. 
Hate  to  go  outdoors  and  hate  to  stay  in.  Poppa 
drives  me  nearly  crazy  with  everything  he  does  and 
says,  but  I  drive  myself  crazier  still.  I  ain't  friend? 

21 


"MOMMA" 

with  myself  or  anybody.  Want  to  die,  and  can't 
bear  the  thought  of  that,  either.  It's  just  a  kind  of 
all-wrongness  everywhere,  if  you  can  make  anything 
out  of  that." 

To  her  amazement,  Ella  said,  "I  know  just  how 
you  feel  and  you've  come  to  the  right  place  to  be 
cured." 

It  was  a  little  disconcerting  to  have  Ella  claim 
a  share  in  Momma's  wonderful  disease  and  to  speak 
so  offhandedly  of  its  cure.  But  instead  of  rebuking 
Ella  for  presuming  and  for  minimizing  the  crisis, 
Momma  felt  relieved,  and  before  long  she  was  yawn 
ing  nobly  and  confessing  that  she  could  not  keep 
her  eyes  open.  Ella  went  to  her  room  with  her  and 
saw  her  bestowed,  then  kissed  her  good  night  and 
left  her.  Momma  noted  that  her  valise  had  been 
unpacked,  her  bed  opened,  her  nightgown  and  slip 
pers  laid  out,  a  water  bottle  set  by  the  reading  lamp 
on  a  little  table  by  the  bed  head,  and  a  dozen  little 
thoughtfulnesses  executed  in  her  behalf. 

When  she  was  in  her  old  nightgown,  which  was 
modeled  on  the  potato-bag  pattern,  and  had  said  her 
prayers,  she  crept  into  the  disgracefully  fine  linen 
sheets  and  slept  in  luxurious  oblivion  for  nine  good 
hours. 

She  did  not  know  that  Ella  had  sneaked  into  her 
own  room,  dressed  swiftly,  and  stolen  out  to  the 
opera,  where  she  stood  up,  and  then  went  to  a  supper 
after,  and  there  danced  awhile  before  she  sneaked 
home  to  bed. 

Momma  had  her  breakfast  in  bed  at  Ella's  previ 
ous  order,  and  wandered  about  the  house  for  hours 
after  Ella  had  rung  for  her  breakfast  and  sent  for 
Momma. 

22 


"MOMMA" 

Ella  was  a  sight.  She  looked  like  one  of  those 
immor'l  French  kings'  favorites.  She  had  on  a  lace 
boudoir  cap  and  a  silk  nightgown,  very  deckolett, 
and  a  "breakfast  jacket"  (of  all  things!)  of  satin 
and  lace. 

She  did  look  handsome.  Momma  had  always 
hated  to  have  even  Poppa  see  her  before  breakfast. 
She  began  to  be  a  little  eager  for  her  cure. 

"When  do  I  go  to  see  this  Doctor  Courtneidge?" 

Ella  hesitated  a  moment,  then  spoke  with  a  certain 
sternness : 

"There  are  two  or  three  things  that  have  to  be 
done  first,  Mattie  dear.  I'm  always  a  beast  up  till 
noon,  so  you  mustn't  be  surprised  if  I'm  brutally 
frank  now.  Doctor  Courtneidge  is  a  very  fussy  and 
snappy  old  gentleman.  He  has  only  swells  for  pa 
tients  and  he's  very  particular." 

"Doesn't  he  treat  poor  folks  at  all?"  Momma 
gasped. 

"Oh  yes,  he  has  free  clinics  and  hospitals  and  all 
that,  and  does  half  his  work  for  nothing.  That's 
why  he's  so  particular  with  his  pay  patients.  You've 
got  to  go  through  a  course  of  sprouts  and  buy  some 
things,  or  you'll  never  get  near  him. 

"His  reception  room  is  full  of  people,  and  you'd 
feel  terribly  embarrassed  to  wait  there  till  he  gets 
round  to  you.  So  you  really  must  have  some  of  this 
year's  clothes  and  a  1920  hat.  And  your  hair — you 
mustn't  be  offended,  Mattie  dear,  but  really  your 
hair  and  your  skin!  He'd  give  you  one  glance  and 
send  you  away  without  an  examination,  even.  You 
see,  I  know  him. 

"And  then  the  examination,  Mattie  dear — well, 
you  know  what  that's  like.  And  in  the  hospital — 

23 


"MOMMA" 

well !  I  saw  the  nightgown  laid  out  on  your  pillow, 
and  that  sort  of  thing  would  simply  frighten  the 
doctor  to  death.  He  really  couldn't  operate." 

"I'm  not  looking  to  marry  the  old  fool,"  Momma 
mumbled.  "I  got  one  husband  a'ready." 

"I  know,  my  dear  Mattie,  but  your  one  husband 
put  you  in  my  charge  and  I'm  going  to  see  you 
through.  My  masseuse  is  coming  to  the  house  this 
morning.  She's  downstairs  now,  I  imagine,  and  I'm 
going  to  have  her  begin  on  you.  When  she's 
finished,  my  hairdresser,  Frangois,  will  get  to  work 
on  that  dear  old  poll  of  yours  and  take  off  about 
forty  years  of  age.  Then  we'll  have  lunch  and  go 
shopping." 

Momma  was  choked  with  wrath,  but  Ella  would 
neither  fight  nor  plead.  She  just  bullied  her  with 
laughter,  and  Momma,  feeling  like  a  convict  unjustly 
imprisoned,  set  her  jaws  and  resolved  to  go  through 
with  the  sentence.  She  revolted,  however,  at  the 
insolence  of  the  masseuse  and  her  exclamations  of 
horror  at  the  neglect  of  a  "skin  that  had  never  really 
been  cleaned." 

But  the  wretch  silenced  Momma's  indignation  with 
the  indignity  of  smeared  cold  cream,  and  smothered 
her  with  hot  towels  and  cold  towels,  and  with  lotions 
of  every  odor  and  smart. 

Momma  would  not  speak  to  her  when  she  left,  but 
when  she  scowled  at  the  mirror  she  gazed  aghast  at 
the  new  face  it  flung  back  at  her.  The  dull  parch 
ment  of  her  skin  had  become  a  living  integument 
with  a  kind  of  dreamy  radiance  alive  in  it. 

Momma  felt  bewitched.  She  would  have  sworn 
that  the  image  in  the  looking-glass  smiled  first  at 
her  and  nodded,  compelling  her  to  smile  back  and 

24 


"MOMMA" 

nod  in  return.  She  hung  there  fascinated,  under 
standing  a  little  of  what  Narcissus  felt  when  he  looked 
first  in  the  pool. 

Then  a  quiet  Frenchman  was  shown  in.  He  over 
awed  Momma  by  his  dignity  and  his  dexterity.  She 
dared  not  slap  his  face  when  he  spoke  of  her  hair  as 
a  crime.  He  called  it  a  "cream,"  but  she  understood 
his  shoulders. 

And  then  he  attacked  her  poor  head  with  ferocious 
familiarity.  If  Poppa  had  ever  caught  him,  and  her, 
he'd  certainly  have  shot  them  both. 

Momma  was  in  for  it,  however,  and  she  actually 
permitted  this  strange  man,  this  appalling  foreigner, 
to  take  down  her  hair,  drench  it,  soap  it,  souse  her 
head  in  water,  pour  curious  smelly  things  over  her 
scalp,  and  rinse  them  out,  massage  her  occiput,  comb 
and  pull  and  torture  and  iron  her  hair  and  dress  it 
on  top  of  her  astounded  skull  in  what  he  called  a 
' '  French  Twist. ' '  She  spent  a  whole  hour  of  ' '  feeling 
like  a  shirt  in  a  steam  laundry,"  as  she  afterward 
expressed  it.  Then  he  brandished  before  her  a  mir 
ror  and  uttered  a  triumphant  cry  of  something  that 
sounded  like: 

"Ah,  my  damn,  walla,  walla!" 

Momma  blushed  vermilion  and  felt  as  immoral  as 
she  looked.  Yet  not  at  all  remorseful,  somehow. 
Fortunately,  Franswa  dashed  out  to  prepare  the  hair 
of  Ella,  leaving  Momma  to  ponder  her  new  face  and 
her  new  hair  with  a  new  soul. 

She  felt  that,  in  Hattie's  formula,  she  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  herself,  but,  to  save  her  immortal  being, 
she  could  not. 

Only  one  thing  she  was  sure  of,  and  that  was  that 
that  head  and  that  hair  did  not  belong  on  top  of  that 
3  25 


"MOMMA" 

old  dress  of  hers.    Her  one  "best  dress"  was  the  one 
worst  dress  she  had  ever  seen. 

When  at  length  she  saw  Ella,  Ella  screamed  with 
delight  at  the  transformation,  and  said  something 
that  rimed : 

"Grow  old  along  with  me. 
The  best  is  yet  to  be." 

The  afternoon  was  spent  in  shopping  for  what  Ella 
called  "landjerree." 

Until  she  had  the  proper  underpinnings,  Ella 
simply  refused  to  buy  Mattie  the  new  dress  and  hat 
she  was  already  clamoring  for. 

The  amount  of  Poppa's  money  that  Ella  spent  on 
silken  shamelessness  dazed  Momma,  but  Ella  would 
not  be  checked,  and  Momma  was  too  childishly  in 
terested  in  the  new  doll  rags  to  make  more  than  a 
show  of  resistance. 

Ella  said,  "If  your  husband  has  money  enough  to 
waste  ten  thousand  dollars  on  my  husband's  foolish 
investments,  he  has  money  enough  to  buy  you  some 
decent  underclothes." 

"Did  you  say  'decent'?"  was  Momma's  feeble 
disclaimer,  but  she  barely  muttered  it. 

That  night,  on  a  plea  of  going  to  bed  early,  Momma 
locked  herself  in  her  room  and  tried  on  the  new 
things.  She  nearly  died  of  palpitation  of  the  heart 
when  she  stood  up  in  silk  stockings,  satin  mules,  and 
in  a  new  streamline  corset  that  gave  her  a  figure! 
A  heroic  figure,  indeed,  but  a  shape,  a  contour,  that 
was  not  altogether  an  insult  to  the  Creator  who 
fashioned  it.  Momma  had  to  give  it  a  religious  sig 
nificance  to  Kve  through  it. 

And  why  not?  What  instinct  is  more  deeply  im- 

26 


"MOMMA" 

planted  in  womanhood  than  the  immemorial  insa 
tiable  lust  for  pretty  things?  It  has  resisted  the  im 
memorial  insatiable  lust  of  preachers  and  satirists  for 
insulting  it,  of  economists  and  hard-working  men  for 
denouncing  it.  It  has  been  called  every  contemptu 
ous  and  cruel  name  in  every  language.  Laws  have 
been  made  against  it  innumerably  in  vain.  And  it 
has  flourished  as  unconquerably  as  violets  in  moss, 
as  perfume  in  hyacinths,  as  bright  plumage  in  birds, 
and  ornate  sunsets  in  western  skies. 

The  weavers  of  silk  and  the  needlers  of  laces,  the 
designers  of  gowns  and  of  hats,  have  kept  up  their 
beautiful  careers  despite  the  thunders  of  self-styled 
virtue  and  the  writers  of  all  times. 

Poets  and  prosers  and  painters  who  have  turned 
less  beautiful  lines  and  have  married  less  beautiful 
colors,  and  the  critics  who  have  celebrated  their 
achievements,  have  looked  down  with  disdain  on 
those  who  have  devoted  their  inspirations  and  their 
toil  to  the  creation  of  felicitous  decorations  for  the 
living  body. 

But  the  women  have  known  better.  They  never 
have  despised  the  artists  who  improved  them  and 
enhanced  them ;  and  by  hook  or  by  crook  they  have 
kept  those  artists  alive  and  blessed  them  with  fame. 

And  again  why  not?  The  pietists  and  the  Puri- 
.tans  who  cannot  forgive  women  for  trying  to  be 
beautiful,  do  they  not  belie  their  own  gods  in  their 
own  barbaric  praise  of  ugliness? 

"O  Justice,  what  crimes  are  committed  in  thy 
name!"  And,  O  Beauty,  what  crimes  in  thine!  Yet 
beauty  shall  not  die  nor  the  love  of  ornament,  and 
those  who  hate  them  cannot  prove  their  right  to  cast 
a  stone.  Frightful  extravagances  and  cruelties  are 

27 


"MOMMA" 

the  result  of  the  hunger  for  beauty  and  the  feeding 
of  that  appetite,  but  this  is  true  of  every  other  re 
ligion  and  law  and  ideal. 

If  everybody  who  dressed  plainly  and  lived  with 
out  luxury  gave  all  he  saved  or  she  did  not  spend 
to  the  poor,  their  miserliness  might  be  justified,  but 
everybody  knows  that  this  is  not  so. 

Beauty  is  generous.  She  who  is  pleased  with 
herself  is  already  hospitable,  and  until  the  millen 
nium  is  here  those  who  have  not  the  energy  or  the 
wile  to  get  fine  clothes  and  wear  them  well  may  con 
tent  themselves  as  best  they  can  by  watching  the 
well-bedecked  go  by. 

And  who  is  he  so  mean  of  soul  that  he  would  de 
cree  the  extinction  of  the  custom  women  have  of 
making  themselves  as  pleasing  to  the  eye  as  pos 
sible?  And  what  benefits  would  the  vandal  confer 
on  bedulled  mankind? 

Momma,  at  least,  at  last  was  not  of  that  humor. 
She  had  become  a  girl  again  at  heart.  She  could 
never  be  again  the  gracile  nymph  who  had  turned 
the  heads  of  Carthage  swains  with  her  flesh  of  apple- 
blossom  hue,  her  fleecy  hair  in  its  ribbons,  and  her 
gay  body  in  its  winsome  fabrics. 

But  she  could  be  a  splendid  white-haired  matron; 
and  that  age  has  a  nobler  beauty  and  a  grander 
charm  than  even  youth  can  give,  youth  so  common 
and  so  helpless  in  its  grace. 

When  Momma  walked  by  chance  in  front  of  the 
long  cheval  glass  she  fell  back  with  a  sob  of  fear 
and  shame.  But  she  approached  again  and  studied 
herself.  She  stood  up  straight,  lifting  her  head 
proudly  on  her  throat,  her  torso  on  her  hips;  hold 
ing  herself  stalwart  as  an  empress. 

28 


"MOMMA" 

And  she  thanked  God  for  what  He  had  given  her, 
and  promised  Him  she  would  take  better  care  of  the 
chalice  of  her  soul.  And  a  happiness  possessed  her 
like  a  benediction. 

The  next  day  she  went  forth  to  buy  dresses,  not 
mere  tents  to  hide  her  shapeless  body  under,  colored 
bags  to  cover  her  lumps  and  bulges  from  the  casual 
and  unlingering  eye,  but  exquisite  masterpieces  from 
skilled  looms,  piously  accepting  the  human  form 
and  developing  its  graces. 

Ella  was  not  fool  enough  to  put  kittenish  an 
achronisms  of  dress  on  Momma.  She  made  her  look 
herself  at  her  supreme. 

And  the  slithy  mannequins  who  stood  about  raved 
over  the  miracle  that  had  been  accomplished  in 
turning  the  dowdy  peasant  that  entered  the  shop 
into  the  high-bred  dowager  that  smiled  upon  the 
approving  mirror. 

Momma's  only  grief  was  that  she  could  not  wear 
any  of  the  goWns  out  on  the  street  at  once.  She  had 
a  frantic  desire  to  prance  up  Fifth  Avenue  without 
delay.  But  there  were  alterations  to  make,  and  she 
must  wait. 

And  so  must  Doctor  Courtneidge. 

She  took  the  delay  as  her  punishment  for  having 
put  off  so  long  the  day  of  her  at-one-ment  with  her 
better  self. 

The  afternoon  was  spent  among  the  milliners. 
Glistening  countesses  in  black  satin  came  and  went, 
with  hats  like  coronets.  They  set  them  daintily  on 
Momma's  turreted  hair,  and  lifted  them  away 
again.  Momma  sat  up  so  straight  that  she  felt  taller 
sitting  down  than  she  had  seemed  hitherto  reaching 
for  a  pantry  shelf. 

29 


"MOMMA" 

It  was  unbelievable  how  much  it  changed  her  face 
to  change  her  hat.  She  cowered  in  horror  from  be 
neath  some  of  the  brims,  but  others  so  caught  her 
up  into  the  clouds  that  they  amounted  to  translation 
— apotheosis  almost. 

In  spite  of  Ella's  cries  of  protest,  she  bought  five 
of  the  costliest  and  wore  one  of  them  away. 

She  went  to  bed  prostrated.  But  it  was  the  pros 
tration  of  a  girl  come  home  from  a  great  ball,  worn 
out  with  rapture  and  pursued  by  remembered  music. 

Poppa  had  not  heard  a  word  of  Momma  since  the 
telegram  she  sent  him  saying  that  she  had  arrived 
and  been  met  and  was  awful  tired  and  discouraged. 

When  no  letters  came  he  was  sure  that  she  was 
up  to  her  old  trick  of  concealing  the  worst  from  him 
as  long  as  possible.  He  was  sure  that  she  was  in 
the  hospital,  delirious  with  pain,  and  on  her  way  to 
the  grave.  His  heart  went  mad  with  visions  of  her 
loss  and  of  the  dismal  life  without  her. 

On  another  of  his  impulses  he  took  a  train  for 
New  York,  sending  a  brief  telegram  to  Ella. 

He  got  off  the  train  in  much  the  desolate  mood 
that  had  dejected  Momma  when  she  arrived.  He 
also  resisted  the  redcap  and  trudged  dolefully  to  the 
line  where  people  waited  behind  the  rope.  And  up 
to  him  also  came  a  gorgeous  creature  whom  he  did 
not  recognize  until  he  heard  the  ancient  voice. 

"Poppa,  don't  you  know  me?" 

The  voice  was  Momma's,  but  since  when  was  she 
a  Tsarina  off  the  throne?  He,  too,  dropped  his 
handbag  and  collapsed.  And  she  lifted  him,  and 
murmured,  as  she  kissed  him: 

''Don't  you  like  me?" 

"I  don't  know  you,"  he  faltered. 


"MOMMA" 

But  he  kissed  her  suave  and  fragrant  cheek  again 
and  looked  into  the  gleaming  eyes  of  the  bride  he 
remembered  out  of  the  long  ago. 

Then  he  began  to  laugh  in  great  gulps  of  blissful 
anguish,  like  a  boy  who  has  found  on  the  Christmas 
tree  a  richer  gift  than  he  had  ever  dreamed  of  or 
dared  to  ask. 

Momma  cried,  too.  But  such  a  different  wail  from 
the  wails  he  had  heard  from  her  of  late! 

Finally  Poppa  thought  that  he  must  give  credit 
for  the  redemption  to  where  it  was  due. 

"That  Doctor  Courtneidge  is  certainly  a  wonder. 
What  on  earth  did  he  do  to  you?" 

"I  haven't  seen  him  yet,"  said  Momma.  "And 
I'm  not  goin'  to.  I've  taken  what  Ella  calls  the 
'hat  cure'  and  all  the  other  clothes  cures.  And  they 
haven't  cost  much  more  than  old  Courtneidge  would 
have  charged." 

Poppa  felt  very  uneasy  walking  along  with  Momma 
in  all  her  glittering  glory.  He  had  always  loved  her. 
Now  he  felt  proud  of  her  with  the  goodly  pride  of  a 
man  who  has  the  luck  to  get  a  beautiful  wife  and  the 
brains  to  keep  her^beautiful. 

The  only  fly  in  the  great  bowl  of  ointment  was 
himself,  his  shabby  self.  He  confessed  as  much. 

"I'm  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  you,  Momma." 

"You  won't  be  after  I  get  through  taking  you  to 
the  tailor's  and  the  other  places  I'm  goin'  to  take 
you  to.  This  is  our  second  honeymoon,  Poppa.  We 
didn't  have  any  trousseau  at  all  before,  but  we're 
goin'  to  make  up  for  it  now.  I  think  I'll  telegraph 
for  Hattie  and  give  her  a  look,  just  so's  to  hear  her 
say,  'Why,  Momma,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself!'" 


"MOMMA" 

"I  guess  you'd  oughta,  at  that,"  Poppa  guffawed. 

And  as  she  swept  into  Ella's  limousine  like  a 
Roman  empress  entering  a  chariot,  Momma  tittered : 

"I  am!  I'm  so  ashamed  of  myself  I'm  proud 
of  it!" 


II 

THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 


A  SKIFF  went  prowling  along  the  demure  Avon 
River  in  the  unhurried  English  twilight  that 
releases  the  sunset  with  reluctance  and  defers  luxu 
riously  the  roll  call  of  the  stars. 

The  skiff  floated  low,  for  the  man  alone  in  it  was 
heavy,  and  he  was  in  no  greater  haste  than  the 
northern  night — which  was  against  the  traditions, 
for  he  was  an  American,  an  American  business  man. 

He  was  making  his  way  through  the  sky-hued 
water  stealthily,  lest  he  disturb  the  leisure  of  the 
swans,  drowsy  above  their  own  images;  lest  he  dis 
courage  the  nightingale  trying  a  few  low  flute  notes 
in  the  cathedral  tower  of  shadow  that  was  a  tree 
above  the  tomb  of  Shakespeare. 

The  American  had  never  heard  a  nightingale  and 
it  was  his  first  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  the  actor- 
manager  whose  productions  Americans  curiously 
couple  with  the  Bible  as  sacred  lore. 

During  the  day  Joel  Wixon  had  seen  the  sights  of 
Stratford  with  the  others  from  his  country  and  from 
England  and  the  Continent.  But  now  he  wanted  to 
get  close  to  Shakespeare.  So  he  hired  the  skiff  and 
declined  the  services  of  the  old  boat  lender. 

And  he  was  stealing  up  into  the  rich  gloom  the 

33 


"MOMMA" 

church  spread  across  the  river.  He  was  pushing  the 
stern  of  the  boat  foremost  so  that  he  could  feast  his 
eyes.  He  was  making  so  little  speed  that  the  only 
sounds  were  the  choked  sob  of  the  water  where  the 
boat  cleft  it  gently  and  the  tinkle  of  the  drops  that 
fell  from  the  lazy  oars  with  something  of  the  delicate 
music  of  the  uncertain  nightingale. 

Being  a  successful  business  man,  Wixon  was  a 
suffocated  poet.  The  imagination  and  the  passion 
and  the  orderliness  that  brought  him  money  were 
the  same  energies  that  would  have  made  him  a  suc 
cess  in  verse.  But  lines  were  not  his  line,  and  he 
was  inarticulate  and  incoherent  when  beauty  over 
whelmed  him,  as  it  did  in  nearly  every  form. 

He  trembled  now  before  the  immediate  majesty 
of  the  scene,  and  the  historic  meanings  that  enriched 
it  as  with  embroidered  arrases.  Yet  he  gave  out  no 
more  words  than  an  seolian  harp  shuddering  with 
ecstasy  in  a  wind  too  gentle  to  make  it  audible. 

In  such  moods  he  hunted  solitude,  for  he  was 
ashamed  to  be  seen,  afraid  to  be  observed  in  the 
raptures  that  did  not  belong  in  the  vocabulary  of  a 
business  man. 

He  had  talked  at  noon  about  the  fact  that  he  and 
Shakespeare's  father  were  in  wool,  and  he  had  an 
noyed  a  few  modest  Americans  by  comparing  the 
petty  amount  of  the  elder  Shakespeare's  trade  with 
the  vasty  total  pouring  from  his  own  innumerable 
looms  driven  with  the  electricity  that  the  Shake- 
speares  had  never  dreamed  of. 

He  had  redeemed  himself  for  his  pretended  brag 
by  a  meek  admission: 

"But  I'm  afraid  my  boy  will  never  write  another 
'Hamlet.'" 

34 


THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 

Yet  what  could  he  know  of  his  own  son?  How 
little  Will  Shakespeare's  father  or  his  scandalized 
neighbors  could  have  fancied  that  the  scapegrace 
good-for-naught  who  left  the  town  for  the  town's 
good  would  make  it  immortal,  and,  coming  back  to 
die  and  lie  down  forever  beside  the  Avon,  would 
bring  a  world  of  pilgrims  to  a  new  Mecca,  the  shrine 
of  the  supreme,  the  unique  poet  of  all  human  time? 

A  young  boy  even  now  was  sauntering  the  path 
along  the  other  shore,  so  lazily  tossing  pebbles  into 
the  stream  that  the  swans  hardly  protested.  It 
came  upon  Wixon  with  a  kind  of  silent  lightning  that 
Shakespeare  had  once  been  such  another  boy  skip 
ping  pebbles  across  the  narrow  river  and  peering 
up  into  the  trees  to  find  out  where  the  nightingale 
lurked. 

Perhaps  three  hundred  years  from  now  some  other 
shrine  would  claim  away  the  pilgrims,  the  home, 
perhaps,  of  some  American  boy  now  groping  through 
the  amber  mists  of  adolescence,  or  of  some  man  as 
little  revered  by  his  own  neighbors  and  rivals  as  the 
man  Shakespeare  was  when  he  went  back  to  Avon 
to  send  back  to  London  his  two  plays  a  year  to  the 
theaters.  Had  not  the  town  council  in  his  last  years 
passed  a  resolution  that  all  plays  were  unlawful,  and 
increased  the  fines  of  actors?  Had  not  Shakespeare's 
own  daughter  been  excommunicated  just  before  his 
death,  for  marrying  in  Lent? 

Being  a  practical  man,  which  is  a  man  who  strives 
to  make  his  visions  palpable,  Wixon  thought  of  his 
own  home  town  and  the  colony  of  boys  that  pros 
pered  there  in  the  Middle  West. 

He  knew  that  no  one  would  seek  the  town  because 
it  was  his  birthplace,  for  he  was  but  a  buyer  of 

35 


"MOMMA" 

fleeces,  a  carder  of  wools,  a  spinner  of  threads,  and 
a  weaver  of  fabrics  to  keep  folks'  bodies  warm.  His 
weaves  wore  well,  but  they  wore  out. 

The  weavers  of  words  were  the  ones  whose  fabrics 
lasted  beyond  the  power  of  time  and  mocked  the 
moths.  Was  there  any  such  spinner  in  Carthage  to 
give  the  town  eternal  blazon  to  ears  of  flesh  and 
blood?  There  was  one  who  might  have  been  the 
man  if — 

Suddenly  he  felt  himself  again  in  Carthage.  There 
was  a  river  there,  too ;  not  a  little  bolt  of  chatoyant 
silk  like  the  Avon,  which  they  would  have  called  a 
"crick"  back  there.  Before  Carthage  rolled  the  in 
comprehensible  floods  of  old  Mississippi  himself, 
Father  of  Waters,  deep  and  vast  and  swift.  They 
had  lately  swung  a  weir  across  it  to  make  it  work 
— a  concrete  wall  a  mile  wide,  and  more,  and  its 
tumbling  cascades  spun  no  little  mill  wheels,  but 
swirled  thundering  turbines  that  lighted  cities  and 
ran  street  cars  a  hundred  miles  away. 

And  yet  it  had  no  Shakespeare. 

And  yet  again  it  might  have  had,  if — 

The  twilight  was  so  deep  now  that  he  shipped 
his  oars  in  the  gloom  and  gave  himself  back  to 
the  past. 

He  was  in  another  twilight,  only  it  was  the  counter- 
twilight  between  star-quench  and  sun-blaze. 


II 

Two  small  boys,  himself  one  of  them,  his  sworn 
chum,  Luke  Mellows,  the  other,  meeting  in  the  silent 
street  just  as  the  daytide  seeped  in  from  the  east 
and  submerged  the  stars  in  twos  and  threes. 

36 


THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 

Joel  had  tied  a  string  to  his  big  toe  and  hung  it 
from  his  window.  Luke  had  done  the  same  thing. 
They  were  not  permitted  to  explode  alarm  clocks 
and  ruin  the  last  sweets  of  sleep  in  either  home.  So 
they  had  agreed  that  the  first  to  wake  should  rise 
and  dress  with  stealth,  slip  down  the  dark  stairs  of 
his  house,  into  the  starlit  street  and  over  to  the 
other's  home,  and  pull  the  toe  cord. 

On  this  morning  Luke  had  been  the  earlier  out, 
and  his  triumphant  yanks  had  dragged  Joel  feet  first 
from  sleep,  and  from  the  bed,  and  almost  through 
the  window.  Joel  had  howled  protests  in  shrill 
whispers,  down  into  the  gloom,  and  then,  releasing 
his  outraged  toe,  had  limped  into  his  clothes  and  so 
to  the  yard. 

The  two  tiny  children,  in  a  huge  world  disputed 
still  by  the  night,  had  felt  an  awe  of  the  sky  and 
the  mysteries  going  on  there.  The  envied  man  who 
ran  up  the  streets  of  evenings  lighting  the  gas  street 
lamps,  was  abroad  again  already  with  his  little  lad 
der  and  his  quick,  insectlike  motions;  only,  now  he 
was  turning  out  the  lights,  just  as  a  similar  but  in 
visible  being  was  apparently  running  around  heaven 
and  putting  out  the  stars. 

Joel  remembered  saying,  "I  wonder  if  they're 
turnin'  off  the  stars  up  there  to  save  gas,  too." 

Luke  did  not  like  the  joke.  He  said,  using  the 
word  "funny"  solemnly:  "It's  funny  to  see  light 
putting  out  light.  The  stars  will  be  there  all  day, 
but  we  won't  be  able  to  see  'em  for  the  sun." 

(Wixon  thought  of  this  now,  and  of  how  Shake 
speare's  fame  had  drowned  out  so  many  stars.  A 
man  had  told  him  that  there  were  hundreds  of  great 
writers  in  Shakespeare's  time,  some  of  them,  some- 

37 


"MOMMA" 

times,  as  great  as  he;  yet  most  people  never  heard 
of  them.) 

As  the  boys  paused,  the  air  quivered  with  a  hoarse 
moo!  as  of  a  gigantic  cow  bellowing  for  her  lost  calf. 
It  was  really  a  steamboat  whistling  for  the  bridge 
to  open  the  draw  and  let  it  through  to  the  South 
with  its  raft  of  logs. 

Both  of  the  boys  called  the  boat  by  name,  knowing 
her  voice.  "It's  the  Bessie  Jane  Brown."  They 
started  on  a  run  to  the  bluff  overlooking  the  river, 
their  short  legs  making  a  full  mile  of  the  scant 
furlong. 

Often  as  Joel  had  come  out  upon  the  edge  of  that 
height  on  his  innumerable  journeys  to  the  river  for 
fishing,  swimming,  skating,  or  just  staring,  it  always 
smote  him  with  the  thrill  Balboa  must  have  felt 
coming  suddenly  upon  the  Pacific  Ocean. 

On  this  morning  there  was  an  unwonted  gran 
deur;  the  whole  vault  of  the  sky  was  curdled  with 
the  dawn,  a  reef  of  solid  black  in  the  west  turning  to 
purple  and  to  amber  and  finally  in  the  east  to  scar 
let,  with  a  few  late  planets  caught  in  the  meshes  of 
the  sunlight  and  tremulous  as  dew  on  a  spider's 
web. 

And  the  battle  in  the  sky  was  repeated  in  the  sea- 
like  river,  with  all  of  the  added  magic  of  the  current 
and  the  eddies  and  the  wimpling  rushes  of  the  dawn 
winds. 

On  the  great  slopes  opposite,  in  Illinois,  were 
houses  and  farmsteads  throwing  off  the  night,  and 
in  the  river  the  Bessie  Jane  Brown,  her  red  light  and 
her  green  light  trailing  scarfs  of  color  on  the  river 
as  she  chuffed  and  clanged  her  bell  and  smote  the 
water  with  her  stern  wheel.  In  the  little  steeple  of 

38 


THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 

the  pilot  house  a  priest  guided  her  and  her  unwieldy 
acre  of  logs  between  the  piers  of  the  bridge,  whose 
lanterns  were  still  belatedly  aglow  on  the  girders 
and  again  in  echo  in  the  flood. 

Joel  filled  his  little  chest  with  a  gulp  of  morning 
air,  and  found  no  better  words  for  his  rhapsody  than, 
"Gee!  but  ain't  it  great?" 

To  his  amazement  Luke,  who  had  always  been 
more  sensitive  than  he,  shook  his  head  and  turned 
away. 

"Gosh!  what  do  you  want  for  ten  cents?"  Joel 
had  demanded,  feeling  called  upon  to  defend  the 
worthiness  of  the  dawn. 

Luke  began  to  cry.  He  dropped  down  on  his 
own  bare  shins,  in  the  weeds,  and  twisted  his  face 
and  his  fists  in  a  vain  struggle  to  fight  off  unmanly 
grief. 

Joel  squatted  at  his  side  and  insisted  on  sharing 
the  secret ;  and  finally  Luke  forgot  the  sense  of  fam 
ily  honor  long  enough  to  yield  to  the  yearning  for 
company  in  his  misery. 

"I  was  up  here  at  midnight  last  night  and  I  don't 
like  this  place  any  more." 

"You  didn't  come  all  by  yourself?    Gee!" 

"No,  momma  was  here,  too." 

"What  did  she  bring  you  out  here  at  a  time  like 
that  for?" 

"She  didn't  know  I  was  here." 

"What  she  doin'  out  here,  then?" 

"She  and  poppa  had  a  turble  quar'l.  I  couldn't 
hear  what  started  it,  but  findly  it  woke  me  up  and 
I  listened,  and  momma  was  cryin'  and  poppa  was 
swearin'.  And  at  last  momma  said,  'Oh,  I  might 
as  well  go  and  throw  myself  in  the  river.'  And  poppa 

39 


"MOMMA" 

said,  'Good  riddance  of  bad  rubbish!'  and  momma 
stopped  cryin',  and  she  says  'All  right!'  in  an  awful 
kind  of  a  voice,  and  I  heard  the  front  door  open  and 
shut." 

"Gee!" 

"Well,  I  jumped  into  my  shirt  and  pants  and  slid 
down  the  rain  pipe  and  ran  along  the  street,  and 
there,  sure  enough,  was  momma,  walkin*  as  fast  as 
she  could. 

"I  was  afraid  to  go  near  her.  I  don't  know  why, 
but  I  was.  So  I  just  sneaked  along  after  her.  The 
street  was  black  as  pitch,  'cep'  for  the  street  lamps, 
and  as  she  passed  ever'one  I  could  see  she  was  still 
cryin'  and  stumblin'  along  like  she  was  blind. 

"It  was  so  late  we  didn't  meet  anybody  at  tall, 
and  there  wasn't  a  light  in  a  single  house  except 
Jonejes',  where  somebody  was  sick,  I  guess.  But 
they  didn't  pay  any  attention,  and  at  last  she  came 
to  the  bluff  here.  And  I  follered.  When  she  got 
where  she  could  see  the  river  she  stopped,  and  held 
her  arms  out  like  she  was  goin'  to  jump  off  or  fly  or 
somethin*.  The  moon  was  up  and  the  river  was  so 
bright  you  could  hardly  look  at  it,  and  momma  stood 
with  her  arms  'way  out,  like  she  was  on  the  Cross, 
or  somethin'. 

"I  was  so  scared  and  so  cold  I  shook  like  I  had  a 
chill.  I  was  afraid  she  could  hear  my  teeth  chat- 
terin',  so  I  dropped  down  in  the  weeds  and  thistles 
to  keep  her  from  seein'  me.  It  was  just  along  about 
here,  too. 

"By  and  by  momma  kind  of  broke,  like  somebody 
had  hit  her.  Then  she  begun  to  cry  again  and  to 
walk  up  and  down,  wringin'  her  pore  hands.  Once 
or  twice  she  started  to  run  down  the  bluff  and  I 

40 


THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 

started  to  f oiler;    but  she  stopped  like  somebody 
held  her  back,  and  I  sunk  down  again. 

"Then,  after  a  long  time,  she  shook  her  head  like 
she  couldn't,  and  turned  back.  She  walked  right 
by  me  and  didn't  see  me.  I  heard  her  whisperin' : 
'  I  can't,  I  can't.  My  pore  childern !  My  pore  little 
innocent  childern.' 

"Then  she  went  back  down  the  street,  and  me 
after  her,  wishin'  I  could  help  her.  But  I  was  afraid 
she  wouldn't  want  me  to  know,  and  I  just  couldn't 
go  near  her." 

Luke  wept  helplessly  at  the  memory  of  his  pol 
troonery,  and  Joel  tried  roughly  to  comfort  him 
with  questions. 

"Gee!  I  don't  blame  you.  I  don't  guess  I  could 
have,  either.  But,  what  was  it  all  about,  d'you 
s'pose?" 

"I  don't  know.  Momma  went  to  the  front  door, 
and  it  was  locked,  and  she  stood  a  long,  long  while 
before  she  could  bring  herself  to  knock.  Then  she 
tapped  on  it  softlike.  And  by  and  by  poppa  opened 
the  door  and  said,  'Oh,  you're  back,  are  you?' 
Then  he  turned  and  walked  away  and  she  went  in 
like  a  whipped  dawg. 

"I  could  have  killed  him  with  a  rock,  if  she  hadn't 
shut  the  door.  But  all  I  could  do  was  to  climb  back 
up  the  rain  pipe.  I  was  so  tired  and  discouraged  I 
nearly  fell  and  broke  my  neck.  And  I  wisht  I  had 
have.  But  there  wasn't  any  more  quarr'l,  only 
momma  kind  of  whimpered  once  or  twice,  and 
poppa  said:  'Oh,  for  God's  sake  shut  up,  and  lea' 
me  sleep.  I  got  to  open  the  store  in  the  mornin', 
ain't  I?'  I  didn't  do  much  sleepin',  and  I  guess 
that's  why  I  woke  up  first." 
4  41 


"MOMMA" 

That  was  all  of  the  story  that  Joel  could  learn. 
The  two  boys  were  shut  out  by  the  wall  of  grown-up 
life.  Luke  crouched  in  bitter  moodiness,  throwing 
clods  at  early  grasshoppers  and  reconquering  his  lost 
dignity.  At  last  he  said: 

"If  you  ever  let  on  to  anybody  what  I  told 
you—" 

"Aw,  say!"  was  Joel's  protest.  His  knighthood 
as  a  sworn  churn  was  put  in  question,  and  he  was 
cruelly  hurt.  Luke  took  assurance  from  his  dismay 
and  said,  in  a  burst  of  fury: 

"Aw,  I  just  said  that!  I  know  you  won't  tell. 
But  just  you  wait  till  I  can  earn  a  pile  of  money. 
I'll  take  momma  away  from  that  old  scounderl  so 
fast  it  '11  make  his  head  swim!"  Then  he  slumped 
again.  "But  it  takes  so  dog-on  long  to  grow  up,  and 
I  don't  know  how  to  earn  anything." 

Then  the  morning  of  the  world  caught  into  its 
irresistible  vivacity  the  two  boys  in  the  morning  of 
their  youth,  and  before  long  they  had  forgotten  the 
irremediable  woes  of  their  elders,  as  their  elders  also 
forgot  the  problems  of  national  woe  and  cosmic 
despair. 

The  boys  descended  the  sidelong  path  at  a  jog, 
brushing  the  dew  and  grasshoppers  and  the  birds 
from  the  hazel  bushes  and  the  paw-paw  shrubs,  and 
scaring  many  a  dewy  rabbit  from  cover. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  bluff  the  railroad  track  was 
the  only  road  along  the  river,  and  they  began  the 
tormenting  passage  over  the  uneven  ties,  with  cinders 
everywhere  for  their  bare  feet.  They  postponed  as 
long  as  they  could  the  delight  of  breakfast,  and  then, 
sitting  on  a  pile  of  timbers,  made  a  feast  of  such  hard- 
boiled  eggs,  cookies,  cheese,  and  crackers  as  they  had 

42 


THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 

been  able  to  wheedle  from  their  kitchens  the  night 
before. 

Their  talk  that  morning  was  earnest,  as  boys'  talk 
is  apt  to  be.  They  debated  their  futures  as  boys  are 
apt  to  do.  Being  American  boys,  two  things  char 
acterized  their  plans:  one,  that  the  sky  itself  was 
the  only  limit  to  their  ambitions;  the  other,  that 
they  must  not  follow  their  fathers'  businesses. 

Joel's  father  was  an  editor;  Luke's  kept  a  hard 
ware  store. 

So  Joel  wanted  to  go  into  trade,  and  Luke  wanted 
to  be  a  writer. 

The  boys  wrangled  with  the  shrill  intensity  of 
youth.  A  stranger  passing  might  have  thought  them 
about  to  come  to  blows.  But  they  were  simply 
noisy  with  earnestness.  Their  argument  was  as  un 
like  one  of  the  debates  in  Vergil's  eclogues  as  possi 
ble.  It  was  an  antistrophe  of  twang  and  drawl. 

"Gee!  you  durned  fool,  watcha  wanta  gointa  busi 
ness  for?"  And — 

"Durned  fool  your  own  self!  Watcha  wanta  be 
a  writer  for?" 

Then  they  laughed  wildly,  struck  at  each  other  in 
mock  hostility,  and  went  on  with  their  all-day  walk, 
returning  at  night  too  weary  for  books  or  even  a 
game  of  authors  or  checkers. 

Both  liked  to  read,  and  they  had  recently  emerged 
from  the  stratum  of  Old  Cap  Collier,  Nick  Carter, 
The  Kid-Glove  Miner,  and  The  Steam  Man,  into 
Ivanhoe,  Scottish  Chiefs,  and  Cudjo's  Cave.  They 
had  passed  out  of  the  Oliver  Optic-Harry  Castleman- 
James  Otis  epochs. 

Joel  Wixon  read  for  excitement ;  Luke  Mellows  for 
information  as  to  the  machinery  of  authorship. 

43 


"MOMMA" 

Young  as  they  were,  they  went  to  the  theater — to 
the  op'ra  house,  which  never  housed  opera. 

Joel  went  often  and  without  price,  since  his  father, 
being  an  editor,  had  the  glorious  prerogative  of 
"comps."  Perhaps  that  was  why  Luke  wanted  to 
be  a  writer. 

Mr.  Mellows,  as  hard  as  his  own  ware,  did  not 
believe  in  the  theater,  and  could  not  be  bullied  or 
wept  into  paying  for  tickets.  But  Luke  became  a 
program  boy  and  got  in  free — a  precious  privilege 
he  kept  secret  as  long  as  possible  and  lost  as  soon  as 
his  father  noticed  his  absences  from  home  on  play 
nights.  Then  he  was  whipped  for  wickedness  and 
ordered  to  give  up  the  theater  forever. 

Perhaps  Luke  would  never  surfer  again  so  fiercely 
as  he  suffered  from  that  denial.  It  meant  a  free 
education  and  a  free  revel  in  the  frequent  perform 
ances  of  Shakespeare,  and  of  repertory  companies 
that  gave  such  triumphs  as  "East  Lynne"  and 
"Camille,"  not  to  mention  the  road  companies  play 
ing  the  uproarious  "Peck's  Bad  Boy,"  "Over  the 
Garden  Wall,"  "Skipped  by  the  Light  of  the  Moon," 
and  the  Charles  Hoyt  screamers. 

The  theater  had  been  a  cloud-veiled  Olympus  of 
mystic  exultations,  of  divine  terrors,  and  of  ambro 
sial  laughter.  But  it  was  a  bad  influence. 

Mr.  Mellows'  theories  of  right  and  wrong  were  as 
simple  and  sharp  as  his  own  knives;  whatever  was 
delightful  and  beautiful  and  laughterful  was  mani 
festly  wicked,  God  having  plainly  devised  the  pretty 
things  as  baits  for  the  devil's  fishhooks.  If  you 
enjoyed  the  earth  you  could  fry  in  hell  forever.  If 
you  resisted  the  beautiful  on  earth  you  could  sing 
to  a  harp  eternal  hosannas. 

44 


THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 

Joel  used  to  tell  Luke  about  the  plays  he  saw  and 
the  exile's  heart  ached  with  envy.  The  boys  took 
long  walks  up  the  river  or  across  the  bridge  into  the 
wonderlands  that  were  overflowed  in  high-water 
times.  And  they  talked  always  of  their  futures. 
Boyhood  was  a  torment,  a  slavery.  Heaven  was 
just  over  the  twenty-first  birthday. 

Joel  got  his  future,  all  but  the  girl  he  planned  to 
take  with  him  up  the  grand  stairway  of  the  palace 
he  foresaw.  Luke  missed  his  future,  and  all  of  his 
dreams. 

in 

Between  the  boys  and  their  manhood  stood,  as 
usual,  the  fathers,  strange  monsters,  ogres,  who 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  at  the  top  of  the  bean  stalk 
that  they  had  once  been  boys  themselves  down 
below. 

After  the  early  and  unceasing  misunderstandings 
as  to  motives  and  standards  of  honor  and  dignity 
came  the  civil  war  over  education. 

Wouldn't  you  just  know  that  each  boy  would  get 
the  wrong  dad?  Joel's  father  was  proud  of  Luke 
and  not  of  Joel.  He  had  printed  some  of  Luke's 
poems  in  the  paper  and  called  him  a  "precocious" 
native  genius.  Joel's  father  wished  that  his  boy 
could  have  had  his  neighbor's  boy's  gift.  It  was  the 
editor's  sorrow  that  Joel  had  none  of  the  artistic 
leanings  that  are  called  "gifts."  He  regretfully  gave 
him  up  as  one  who  would  not  carry  on  the  torch  his 
father  had  set  out  with.  He  could  not  force  his 
child  to  be  a  genius,  but  he  insisted  that  Joel  should 
have  an  education.  The  editor  had  found  himself 
handicapped  by  a  lack  of  the  mysterious  enrichment 

45 


"MOMMA" 

that  a  tour  through  college  gives  the  least  absorbent 
mind.  He  was  determined  to  provide  it  for  his  boy, 
though  Joel  felt  that  every  moment's  delay  in  leap 
ing  into  the  commercial  arena  was  so  much  delay  in 
arriving  at  gladiatorial  eminence. 

Luke's  father  had  had  even  less  education  than 
Editor  Wixon,  and  was  proud  of  it.  He  had  never 
gone  far  in  the  world,  but  he  was  one  of  those  men 
who  are  automatically  proud  of  everything  they  do 
and  derive  even  from  failure  or  humiliation  a  savage 
conceit. 

He  made  Luke  work  in  his  store  or  out  of  it  as  a 
delivery  boy,  during  vacations  from  such  school 
terms  as  the  law  required.  He  saw  the  value  of 
enough  education  to  make  out  bills  and  write  dun 
ning  letters.  "Books,"  to  him,  meant  the  doleful 
books  that  bookkeepers  keep.  As  for  any  further 
learning,  he  reckoned  it  a  waste  of  time,  a  kind  of 
wantonness. 

He  felt  that  Providence  had  intentionally  selected 
a  cross  for  him  in  the  son  who  was  wicked  and  foolish 
enough  to  want  to  read  stories  and  see  plays  and  go 
to  school  for  years  instead  of  hurrying  right  into 
business. 

The  thought  of  sending  his  boy  through  a  pre 
paratory  academy  and  college  and  wasting  his  youth 
on  nonsense  was  intolerable.  It  maddened  him  to 
have  the  boy  plead  for  such  folly.  He  tried  in  vain 
to  whip  it  out  of  Luke. 

Joel's  ideas  of  education  were  exactly  those  of  Mr. 
Mellows,  but  he  did  not  like  Mr.  Mellows  because 
of  the  anguish  he  inflicted  on  Luke.  Joel  used  to 
beg  Luke  to  run  away  from  home.  But  that  was 
impracticable  for  two  reasons:  Luke  was  not  of  the 

46 


THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 

runaway  sort,  but  meek  and  shy,  and  obedient  to  a 
vice. 

Besides,  while  a  boy  can  run  away  from  school  he 
cannot  easily  run  away  to  school.  If  he  did  he 
would  be  sent  back,  and  if  he  was  not  sent  back  how 
was  he  to  pay  for  his  tooition  and  his  board  and 
books  and  clo'es? 

It  was  Luke's  influence  that  sent  Joel  away  to 
boardin'  school.  Luke  so  longed  to  go  that  Joel  felt 
it  foolish  to  deny  himself  the  godlike  opportunity. 
So  Luke  went  to  school  vicariously  in  Joel,  as  he 
got  his  other  experiences  vicariously  in  books. 

At  school  Joel  was  pleasantly  surprised.  He  found 
so  much  to  do  outside  of  his  classes  that  he  grew 
content  to  go  all  the  way.  There  was  a  glee  club  to 
manage,  also  an  athletic  club;  a  paper  to  solicit  ads 
and  subscriptions  for;  class  officers  to  be  elected, 
with  all  the  delights  of  political  maneuvering — a 
world  in  little  to  run  with  all  the  solemnity  and  com 
petition  of  the  adult  cosmos.  So  Joel  was  happy 
and  lucky  and  successful  in  spite  of  himself. 

The  day  after  he  took  train  up  the  river  to  his 
academy  Luke  took  a  position  his  father  secured  for 
him.  He  entered  the  little  back  room  where  the 
Butterly  Bottling  Works  kept  its  bookkeepers  on 
high  stools. 

The  Butterly  soda  pops,  ginger  ales,  and  other 
soft  drinks  were  triumphs  of  insipidity,  and  their 
birch  beer  sickened  the  thirstiest  child.  But  the 
making  and  the  marketing,  and  even  the  drinking 
of  them,  were  matters  of  high  emprise  compared  to 
the  keeping  of  the  accounts. 

One  of  the  saddest,  sweetest,  greatest  stories  ever 
written  is  Ellis  Pigsispigs  Butler's  fable  of  the  con- 

47 


"MOMMA" 

tented  little  donkey  that  went  round  and  round  in 
the  mill  and  thought  he  was  traveling  far.  But  that 
donkey  was  blind,  and  had  no  dreams  denied. 

Luke  Mellows  was  a  boy,  a  boy  that  still  "felt  his 
life  in  every  limb,"  a  boy  devoured  with  fantastic 
ambitions.  He  had  a  genius  within  that  smothered 
and  struggled  till  it  all  but  perished  unexpressed.  It 
lived  only  enough  to  be  an  anguish.  It  hurt  him 
like  a  hidden,  unmentioned,  ingrowing  toenail  that 
cuts  and  bleeds  and  excruciates  the  fleet  member  it 
is  meant  to  protect. 

IV 

When  Joel  came  home  for  his  first  vacation  with 
the  rush  of  a  young  colt  that  has  had  a  good  time  in 
the  corral,  but  rejoices  in  the  old  pastures,  his  first 
cry  was  for  Luke.  When  he  learned  where  he  was 
he  hurried  to  the  Bottling  Works.  He  was  turned 
away  with  the  curt  remark  that  employees  could  not 
be  seen  in  business  hours. 

In  those  days  there  were  no  machines  to  simplify 
and  verify  the  bookkeeper's  treadmill  task,  and  busi 
ness  hours  were  never  over. 

Joel  left  word  at  Luke's  home  for  Luke  to  call  for 
him  the  minute  he  was  free.  He  did  not  come  that 
evening,  nor  the  next.  Joel  was  hurt  more  than  he 
dared  admit. 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon  before  Luke  came  round ; 
a  different  Luke,  a  lean,  wan,  worn-out  shred  of  a 
youth.  His  welcome  was  sickly. 

"Geeminetly!"  Joel  roared.  "I  thought  you  was 
mad  at  me  about  something.  You  never  came 
near." 

"I  wanted  to  come,"  Luke  croaked,  "but  nights 

48 


THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 

I'm  too  tired  to  walk  anywheres,   and  besides  I 
usually  have  to  go  back  to  the  off  us." 

"Gee!  that's  damn  tough!"  said  Joel,  who  had 
grown  from  darn  to  damn. 

Thinking  to  light  Luke  up  with  a  congenial  theme, 
Joel  heroically  forbore  to  describe  the  marvels  of 
academy  life,  and  asked: 

"What  you  been  readin'  lately — a  little  bit  of 
everything,  I  guess,  hey?" 

"A  whole  lot  of  nothin',"  Luke  sighed.  "I  got 
no  strength  for  readin'  by  the  time  I  shut  my  ledgers. 
I  got  to  save  my  eyes,  you  know.  The  light's  bad 
in  that  back  room." 

"What  you  been  writin',  then?" 

"Miles  of  figures,  and  entries  about  'one  gross 
bottles  lemon';  'two  gross  sassaprilla ' ;  'one  gross 
empties  returned.'" 

"No  more  poetry?" 

"No  more  nothin'." 

Joel  was  obstinately  cheerful. 

"Well,  you  been  makin'  money,  anyways,  that's 
something." 

"Yeh.  I  buy  my  own  shoes  and  clo'es  now  and 
pay  my  board  and  lodgin'  at  home.  And  paw  puts 
the  two  dollars  that's  left  into  the  savings  bank.  I 
got  nearly  thirty  dollars  there  now.  I'll  soon  have 
enough  for  a  winter  soot  and  overcoat." 

"Gee!  Can't  you  go  buggy  ridin'  even  with  Kit?" 

"I  could  if  I  had  the  time  and  the  price,  and  if  her 
maw  wasn't  so  poorly  that  Kitty  can't  get  away. 
I  go  over  there  Sunday  afternoons  sometimes,  but 
her  maw  always  hollers  for  her  to  come  in.  She's 
afraid  to  be  alone.  Kit's  had  to  give  up  the  high 
school,  account  of  her  maw." 

49 


"MOMMA" 

"How  about  her  goin'  away  to  be  a  great  singer?" 

Luke  grinned  at  the  insanity  of  such  childish 
plans. 

"Oh,  that's  all  off!  Kit  can't  even  practice  any 
more.  The  noise  makes  her  mother  nervous.  And 
Kit  had  to  give  up  the  church  choir,  too.  She's 
eatin'  her  heart  out,  and  you'd  hardly  know  her. 
She  cries  a  lot  about  lookin'  so  scrawny.  O'course, 
I  tell  her  she's  pirtier  than  ever,  but  that  only  makes 
her  mad.  She  can't  go  to  sociables,  or  dances,  or 
picnics,  and  if  she  could  she's  got  no  clo'es.  We 
don't  have  much  fun  together — just  sit  and  mope, 
and  then  I  say,  'Well,  I  guess  I  better  mosey  on 
home';  she  says,  'All  right.  See  you  again  next 
Sunday,  I  s'pose.  G'by!" 

The  nightingale  annoyed  the  owl,  and  was  hushed, 
and  the  poet  rimed  sums  in  a  day  book. 

The  world  waited  for  them  and  needed  them  with 
out  knowing  it;  it  would  have  rewarded  them  with 
thrilled  attention  and  wealth  and  fame.  But  silence 
was  their  portion,  silence  and  the  dark  and  an  ache 
that  had  no  voice. 

Joel  listened  to  Luke's  elegy,  and  groaned : 

"Gee!" 

But  he  had  an  optimism  like  a  powerful  spring, 
and  it  struck  back  now  with  a  whir. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Luke.  Just  you  wait  till  I'm 
rich,  then  I'll  give  you  a  job  as  vice  president  and 
you  can  marry  Kitty  and  live  on  Broadway  in  Noo 
York." 

"I've  got  over  believin'  in  Sandy  Claus!"  said 
Luke. 

Joel  saw  little  of  him  during  this  vacation  and  less 
during  the  next.  Being  by  nature  a  hater  of  despair, 

50 


THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 

he  avoided  Luke.  He  had  fits  of  remorse  for  this, 
and  once  he  dared  to  make  a  personal  appeal  to  old 
Mr.  Mellows  to  send  Luke  away  to  school.  He  was 
received  with  scant  courtesy,  and  only  tolerated  be 
cause  he  gave  the  father  a  chance  to  void  some  of 
his  bile  at  the  worthlessness  of  Luke. 

"The  cub's  no  good;  that's  what's  the  matter  of 
him.  And  willful,  too — he  just  mopes  around  because 
he  wants  to  show  me  I'm  wrong.  But  he's  only 
cuttin'  off  his  own  nose  to  spite  his  face.  I'll  learn 
him  who's  got  the  most  will  power." 

Joel  was  bold  enough  to  suggest:  "Maybe  Luke 
would  be  differ'nt  if  you'd  let  him  go  to  college. 
You  know,  Mr.  Mellows,  if  you'll  'scuse  my  saying 
it,  there's  some  natures  that  are  differ'nt  from  others. 
You  hitch  a  race  horse  up  to  a  plow  and  you  spoil 
a  good  horse  and  your  field,  both.  Seems  to  me  as 
if,  if  Luke  got  a  chance  to  be  a  writer  or  a  perfessor 
or  something,  he  might  turn  out  to  be  a  wonder. 
You  can't  teach  a  canary  bird  to  be  a  hen,  you  know, 
and—" 

Mr.  Mellows  locked  himself  in  that  ridiculous  cita 
del  of  ancient  folly. 

"When  you're  as  old  as  I  am,  Joel,  you'll  know 
more.  The  first  thing  anybody's  got  to  learn  in 
this  world  is  to  respect  their  parents." 

Joel  wanted  to  say,  "I  should  think  that  depended 
on  the  parents." 

But  of  course  he  kept  silent,  as  the  young  usually 
do  when  they  hear  the  old  maundering,  and  he  gave 
up  as  he  heard  the  stupid  dolt  returning  to  his  old 
refrain: 

"I  left  school  when  I  was  twelve  years  old.  Ain't 
had  a  day  sence,  and  I  can't  say  as  I've  been  exactly 


"MOMMA" 

a  failure;  got  the  best  hardware  store  in  Carthage, 
and  holdin*  my  own  in  spite  of  bad  business." 

Joel  slunk  away,  unconvinced  but  baffled.  One 
summer  he  brought  all  his  pressure  to  bear  on  Luke 
to  persuade  him  to  throw  up  his  job  and  strike  out 
for  the  big  city,  where  the  big  opportunities  grew. 
He  offered  to  lend  him  the  money  from  his  own 
savings.  But  Luke  shook  his  head.  He  lacked  in 
itiative.  Perhaps  that  was  where  his  talent  was  not 
genius.  It  blistered  him,  but  it  made  no  steam. 

Shakespeare  had  known  enough  to  leave  Stratford. 
He  had  had  to  hold  horses  outside  a  theater  at  first, 
but  even  then  he  had  organized  a  little  business  group 
of  horse  holders  called  "Shakespeare's  boys."  He 
had  the  business  sense,  and  he  forced  his  way  into 
the  theater  and  became  a  stockholder.  But  Shake 
speare  was  always  an  adventurer.  As  a  boy  he  had 
to  work  in  a  butcher's  shop,  but  before  he  was  nine 
teen  he  was  already  married  to  a  woman  of  twenty- 
six,  and  none  too  soon  for  the  first  child's  sake. 
Shakespeare,  as  Joel  said,  had  a  pile  of  get-up-and- 
get. 

Luke  Mellows  had  not  the  courage  or  the  reck 
lessness  to  marry  Kitty,  though  he  had  as  good  a  job 
as  Shakespeare's.  Shakespeare  would  not  let  a  pre 
mature  family  keep  him  from  his  ambition.  He  was 
twenty-one  when  he  went  to  London,  but  he  went, 
leaving  a  wife,  a  daughter,  and  a  pair  of  twins. 

London  was  a  boom  town  then,  about  the  size  of 
Trenton  or  Grand  Rapids  or  Spokane,  and  growing 
fast.  Boys  were  running  away  from  the  farms  and 
villages  as  they  always  have  done. 

Other  boys  went  to  London  from  Stratford,  John 
Sadler  to  become  a  big  wholesale  grocer,  and  Richard 

52 


THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 

Field,  a  publisher.  They  had  as  various  reasons  then 
as  now. 

But  the  main  thing  was  that  they  left  home.  That 
might  mean  a  noble  or  a  selfish  ambition,  but  it  took 
action. 

Luke  Mellows  would  not  go.  He  dreaded  to 
abandon  his  mother  to  the  father  who  bullied  them 
both.  He  could  not  bear  to  leave  Kitty  alone  with 
the  wretched  mother  who  ruled  her  with  tears. 

Other  boys  left  Carthage  as  Avon,  some  of  them 
to  become  failures,  and  some  half  successes,  and  some 
of  them  to  acquire  riches  and  power.  And  other 
boys  stayed  at  home. 

Girls,  too,  had  won  obscurity  by  inertia  or  had 
swung  into  fame.  Some  of  the  Carthage  girls  had 
stayed  at  home  and  gone  wrong  there.  Some  had 
gone  away  in  disgrace,  and  redeemed  or  damned 
themselves  in  larger  parishes.  There  were  Aspasias 
and  Joans  of  Arc  in  miniature,  minor  Florence 
Nightingales  and  Melbas  and  Rosa  Bonheurs. 

But  they  all  had  to  leap  from  the  nest  and  try  their 
wings.  Of  those  that  did  not  take  the  plunge,  none 
made  the  flight. 

Cowardice  held  some  back,  but  the  purest  self- 
sacrifice  others.  Joel  felt  that  there  ought  to  be  a 
heaven  for  these  latter,  yet  he  hoped  that  there  was 
no  hell  for  the  former.  For  who  can  save  himself 
from  his  own  timidity,  and  who  can  protect  himself 
from  his  own  courage? 

Given  a  little  spur  of  initiative,  a  little  armor  of 
selfish  indifference  to  the  clinging  hands  at  home, 
and  how  many  a  soul  might  not  have  reached 
the  stars?  Look  at  the  women  who  were  crowd 
ing  the  rolls  of  fame  of  late  just  because  all  woman- 

53 


"MOMMA" 

kind  had  broken  free  of  the  apron  strings  of  alleged 
respectability. 

v 

Joel  had  no  proof  that  Luke  Mellows  would  have 
amounted  to  much.  Perhaps  if  he  had  ventured  over 
the  nest's  edge  he  would  have  perished  on  the  ground, 
trampled  into  the  dust  by  the  fameward  mob  or  de 
voured  by  the  critics  that  pounce  upon  every  fledgling 
and  suck  the  heart  out  of  all  that  cannot  fling  them  off. 

But  Joel  could  not  surrender  his  childhood  faith 
that  Luke  Mellows  had  been  meant  for  another 
Shakespeare.  Yet  Mellows  had  never  written  a 
play,  or  an  act  of  a  play.  But  for  that  matter, 
neither  had  Shakespeare  before  he  went  to  London. 
Will  was  only  a  poet  at  first,  and  some  of  his  poems 
were  pretty  poor  stuff — if  you  took  Shakespeare's 
name  off  it.  And  his  first  poems  had  to  be  published 
by  his  fellow  townsman,  Field. 

There  were  the  childish  poems  by  Luke  Mellows 
that  Joel's  father  had  published  in  the  Carthage 
Clarion.  Joel  had  forgotten  them  utterly  and  they 
were  probably  meritorious  of  oblivion.  But  there 
was  one  poem  Luke  had  written  that  Joel  memorized. 

It  appeared  in  the  Clarion  years  after  Joel  was  a  suc 
cess  in  wool.  His  father  still  sent  him  the  paper,  and 
•*n  one  number  Joel  was  rejoiced  to  read  these  lines: 

THE  ANONYMOUS 

BY 

LUKE  MELLOWS  (OP  CARTHAGE) 

Sometimes  at  night,  within  a  wooded  park, 
Like  an  ocean  cavern  fathoms  deep  in  gloom, 
Sweet  scents  like  hymns  from  hidden  flowers  fume, 

And  make  the  wanderer  happy,  though  the  dark 
Obscures  their  tint,  their  name,  their  shapely  bloom. 
54 


THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 

So,  in  the  thick-set  chronicles  of  fame,. 

There  hover  deathless  feats  of  souls  unknown. 

They  linger  like  the  fragrant  smoke-wreaths  blown 
From  liberal  sacrifice.    Gone  face  and  name; 

The  deeds,  like  homeless  ghosts,  live  on  alone. 

Wixon,  seated  in  the  boat  on  Avon,  and  lost  in 
such  dusk  that  he  could  hardly  see  his  hand  upon 
the  idle  oar,  recited  the  verses  softly  to  himself,  in 
toning  them  in  the  deep  voice  one  saves  for  poetry. 
They  sounded  wonderful  to  him  in  the  luxury  of 
hearing  his  own  voice  upon  the  water  and  indulging 
his  own  memory.  The  somber  mood  was  perfect  in 
accord  with  the  realm  of  shadow  and  silence  where 
everything  beautiful  and  living  was  cloaked  in  the 
general  blur,  the  smother  of  sleep. 

After  he  had  heard  his  voice  chanting  the  last 
long  oh's  of  the  final  verse,  he  was  ashamed  of  his 
solemnity,  and  terrified  lest  some  one  might  have 
heard  him  and  accounted  him  insane.  He  laughed 
at  himself  for  a  sentimental  fool.  He  laughed,  too, 
as  he  remembered  what  a  letter  of  praise  he  had  dic 
tated  to  his  astonished  stenographer  and  fired  off 
at  Luke  Mellows;  and  at  the  flippant  letter  he  had 
had  in  return. 

Lay  readers  who  send  incandescent  epistles  to 
poets  are  apt  to  receive  answers  in  sardonic  prose. 
The  poet  lies  a  little,  perhaps,  in  a  very  sane  sus 
picion  of  his  own  transcendencies. 

Luke  Mellows  had  written: 

DEAR  OLD  JOEL, — I  sure  am  much  obliged  for  your  mighty 
handsome  letter.  Coming  to  one  of  the  least  successful  wool 
gatherers  in  the  world  from  one  of  the  most  successful  wool  dis 
tributors,  it  deserves  to  be  highly  prized.  And  is.  I  will  have  it 
framed  and  handed  down  to  my  heirs,  of  which  there  are  more 
than  there  will  ever  be  looms. 

55 


"MOMMA" 

You  ask  me  to  tell  you  all  about  myself.  It  won't  take  long. 
When  the  Butterly  Bottlery  went  bust,  I  had  no  job  at  all  for 
six  months,  so  I  got  married  to  spite  my  father,  and  to  please 
Kit,  whose  poor  mother  ceased  to  suffer  about  the  same  time. 

The  poor  girl  was  so  used  to  taking  care  of  a  poor  old  woman 
who  couldn't  be  left  alone,  that  I  became  her  patient — just  to 
keep  her  talents  from  going  to  waste. 

The  steady  flow  of  children  seems  to  upset  the  law  of  supply 
and  demand,  for  there  is  certainly  no  demand  for  more  of  my 
progeny  and  there  is  no  supply  for  them.  But  somehow  they 
thrive. 

I  am  now  running  my  father's  store,  as  the  old  gentleman  had 
a^stroke,  and  then  another.  The  business  is  going  to  pot  as 
rapidly  as  you  would  expect,  but  I  haven't  been  able  to  kill  it 
off  quite  yet. 

Thanks  for  advising  me  to  go  on  writing  immortal  poetry.  If 
I  were  immortal  I  might,  but  that  fool  thing  was  the  result  of 
about  ten  years'  hard  labor.  I  tried  to  make  a  sonnet  of  it,  but 
I  gave  up  at  the  end  of  the  decade  and  called  it  whatever  it  is. 

Your  father's  paper  published  it  free  of  charge  and  so  my 
income  from  my  poetry  has  been  one-tenth  of  nothing  per  annum. 
Please  don't  urge  me  to  do  any  more.  I  really  can't  afford  it. 

The  verses  were  suggested  to  me  by  an  ancient  fit  of  blues, 
over  the  fact  that  Kit's  once-so-beautiful  voice  would  never  be 
heard  in  song,  and  by  the  fact  that  her  infinite  goodnesses  will 
never  meet  any  recompense  or  even  acknowledgment. 

I  was  bitter  about  it  and  everything  the  first  five  years,  but 
during  the  last  five  years  I  have  been  feeling  how  rich  this  dark 
old  world  is  in  good,  brave,  sweet,  lovable,  heartbreakingly  beau 
tiful  deeds  that  simply  cast  a  little  fragrance  on  the  dark  and 
are  gone.  They  perfume  the  night,  and  perhaps  nobody  goes  by 
at  all  to  know  it.  The  busy  daylight  dispels  them  like  the 
morning  mists  that  we  used  to  watch  steaming  and  vanishing 
above  the  old  river.  The  Mississippi  is  still  here,  still  rolling 
along  its  eternal  multitudes  of  snows  and  flowers  and  fruits  and 
fish  and  snakes  and  dead  men  and  boats  and  trees. 

They  go  where  they  came  from,  I  guess — in  and  out  of  nothing 
and  back  again.  But  the  world  is  a  pretty  sight  as  it  passes  by, 
if  you  don't  fret  too  much. 

Anyway,  it  is  a  matter  of  glory  to  all  of  us  that  you  are  doing 

56 


THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 

so  nobly.  Keep  it  up  and  give  us  something  to  brag  about  in 
our  obscurity.  Don't  worry.  We  are  happy  enough  in  the 
dark.  We  have  our  batlike  sports  and  our  owllike  prides,  and 
the  full  sun  would  only  blind  us  and  lose  us  our  way. 

Kit  sends  you  her  love — and  blushes  as  she  says  it.  That  is 
a  very  daring  word  for  such  shy  moles  as  we  are,  but  I  will 
echo  it. 

Yours  for  old  sake's  sake, 

LUKE. 

VI 

Vaguely  remembering  this  letter  now,  Joel  inhaled 
a  bit  of  the  merciful  chloroform  that  deadens  the 
pain  of  thwarted  ambition. 

The  world  was  full  of  men  and  women  like  Luke 
and  Kit.  Some  had  given  up  great  hopes  because 
they  were  too  good  to  tread  others  down  in  their 
quest.  Some  had  quenched  great  talents  because 
they  were  too  fearsome  or  too  weak  or  too  lazy  to 
feed  their  lamps  with  oil  and  keep  them  trimmed  and 
alight.  Some  had  stumbled  through  life  darkly, 
with  no  gifts  of  talent,  without  even  appreciation  of 
the  talents  of  others  or  of  the  flowerlike  beauties 
that  star  the  meadows. 

Those  were  the  people  he  had  known.  And  then 
there  were  the  people  he  had  not  known,  the  in 
numerable  caravan  that  had  passed  across  the  earth 
while  he  lived,  the  inconceivable  hosts  that  had  gone 
before,  tribe  after  tribe,  generation  upon  generation, 
nation  at  the  heels  of  nation,  cycle  on  era  on  age, 
diuturnity  and  the  backward  perpetuity  from  ever 
lasting  unto  everlasting.  People,  people,  peoples — 
poor  souls  until  the  thronged  stars  that  make  a  dust 
of  the  Milky  Way  were  a  lesser  mob. 

Here,  in  this  graveyard  at  Stratford,  lay  men  who 
5  57 


"MOMMA" 

might  have  overtopped  Shakespeare's  glory  if  they 
had  but  "had  a  mind  to." 

Some  of  them  had  been  held  in  higher  esteem  in 
their  town  and  had  sneered  at  him.  Some  had  loved 
and  revered  him.  But  they  were  alike  forgotten, 
their  names  leveled  with  the  surface  of  their  fallen 
tombstones. 

Had  he  not  cried  out  in  his  own  "Hamlet,"  "O  God, 
I  could  be  bounded  in  a  nutshell  and  count  myself 
a  king  of  infinite  space,  were  it  not  that  I  have  had 
dreams — which  dreams,  indeed,  are  ambition;  for 
the  very  substance  of  the  ambitious  is  merely  the 
shadow  of  a  dream — and  I  hold  ambition  of  so  airy 
and  light  a  quality  that  it  is  but  a  shadow's  shadow." 

After  all,  the  greatest  of  men  were  granted  but  a 
lesser  oblivion  than  the  least.  And  in  that  over 
powering  thought  there  was  a  strange  comfort,  the 
comfort  of  misery  finding  itself  in  an  infinite 
company. 

VII 

The  night  was  thick  upon  Avon.  The  swans  had 
gone  somewhere.  The  lights  in  the  houses  had  a 
sleepy  look.  It  was  time  to  go  to  bed. 

Joel  yawned  with  the  luxury  of  having  wearied 
his  heart  with  emotion.  He  had  thought  himself  out 
for  once.  It  was  good  to  be  tired.  He  put  his  oars 
into  the  stream  and,  dipping  up  reflected  stars,  sent 
them  swirling  in  a  doomsday  chaos  after  him  with 
the  defiant  revenge  of  a  proud  soul  who  scorns  the 
universe  that  grinds  him  to  dust. 

He  was  scorned  in  turn  by  the  old  boatman,  who  was 
surly  with  waiting  and  did  not  thank  the  foreigner  for 
his  liberal  largess;  did  not  answer  his  good  night. 

58 


THE  STICK-IN-THE-MUDS 

As  Wixon  left  the  river  and  took  the  road  for  his 
hotel,  the  nightingale  (that  forever  anonymous  night 
ingale,  only  one  among  the  millions  of  forgotten  or 
throttled  songsters)  revolted  for  a  moment  or  two 
against  the  stifling  doom  and  shattered  it  with  a 
wordless  sonnet  of  fierce  and  beautiful  protest — 
' '  The  tawny- throated !  What  triumph !  hark . — what 
pain!" 

It  was  as  if  Luke  Mellows  had  suddenly  found 
expression  in  something  better  than  words,  some 
thing  that  any  ear  could  understand,  an  ache  that 
rang. 

Wixon  stopped,  transfixed  as  by  flaming  arrows. 
He  could  not  understand  what  the  bird  meant  or 
what  he  himself  meant;  nor  could  the  bird.  Still, 
as  there  is  no  laughter  that  eases  the  heart  like  un 
packing  it  of  its  woes  in  something  beyond  wording, 
so  there  is  nothing  that  brightens  the  eyes  like  tears 
gushing  without  shame  or  restraint. 

Joel  Wixon  felt  that  it  was  a  good,  sad,  mad  world, 
and  that  he  had  been  very  close  to  Shakespeare — 
so  close  that  he  heard  things  nobody  had  ever  found 
the  phrases  for — things  that  cannot  be  said,  but  only 
felt;  things  transmitted,  rather  by  experience  than 
by  expression,  from  one  poor  worm  in  the  mud  to 
another. 


Ill 

READ  IT  AGAIN 

THE  tall  Sunday-school  teacher  stood  and  ha 
rangued  a  small  flock  of  fidgety  boys.  They 
thought  of  nearly  everything  except  what  he  was 
saying,  and  if  they  learned  anything  at  all  it  was 
something  that  he  never  dreamed  he  taught.  One 
of  the  Sabbath  sparrows  was  fascinated  by  the  play 
of  light  on  the  teacher's  features.  It  streamed 
through  a  window  of  imitation  stained  glass  cut  in 
small,  diamond-shaped  panes,  covered  with  colored 
paper  oiled  into  translucence. 

What  fascinated  the  boy  was  the  miracle  wrought 
in  the  teacher's  appearance  by  the  change  of  light? 
as  his  weight  shifted  from  foot  to  foot  and  his  head 
from  beam  to  beam.  When  his  brow  was  smitten 
by  the  shaft  from  a  blue  pane,  he  looked  wan, 
ethereal,  spiritual,  holy.  Then  he  moved  into  a 
rosy  glow,  as  if  into  a  fountain  of  youth,  and  the 
pallid  ascetic  was  suddenly  young,  ruddy,  amused, 
exuberant.  With  the  change  of  appearance  his 
character  seemed  to  change;  he  was  not  the  same 
man  in  any  respect.  His  interpretation  of  the  Scrip 
tures  seemed  to  be  altered. 

He  bent  forward  into  a  greenish  glare,  and  at  once 
was  three  days  dead,  livid,  loathsome,  grisly.  He 
leaned  back  into  the  influence  of  a  pane  whose  col 
ored  paper  had  curled  up  and  peeled  off.  Through 

60 


READ  IT  AGAIN 

this  came  a  ray  of  ordinary  daylight.  And  ordinary 
daylight  is  not  considered  mysterious,  since  it  con 
tains  all  the  mysteries  of  light  and  emphasizes  none. 
Herein  the  teacher  looked  to  be  merely  himself,  and 
of  course  there  is  nothing  mysterious  about  an  or 
dinary  man. 

Again  and  again  this  Proteus  slipped  from  phase 
to  phase,  recurring  to  each  aspect  as  he  passed 
through  a  sheaf  of  tints  like  a  clutch  of  brushes,  each 
painting  a  new  portrait. 

The  boy  remembered  this  kaleidoscope  of  charac 
ter  for  many  a  year,  but  he  was  no  longer  a  boy,  and 
deeply  steeped  in  life  before  he  seemed  to  find  an 
important  lesson  in  the  unimportant  incident — a 
primer  lesson  in  the  art  of  understanding  other  peo 
ple  and  in  the  science  of  analyzing  other  people's 
motives  as  well  as  one's  own. 

For  of  all  the  dreadful  habits  of  mankind,  few  are 
so  nearly  universal  and  eternal  as  that  of  ascribing 
to  another  person  a  motive  he  did  not  feel,  and  then 
condemning  him  and  exalting  ourselves  on  that 
cheap  and  flimsy  basis. 

We  are  most  contemptible  when  we  are  contemp 
tuous,  for  we  judge  everything  by  appearances  that 
are  never  complete  or  correct,  forgetting  that  we  see 
and  are  seen  not  by  any  light  of  our  own,  but  by 
some  other  body's  light,  that  strikes  from  outside 
and  ricochets  into  the  observer's  eyes.  And  the 
observer  accepts  us  or  rejects,  according  to  our  alien 
illumination.  And  even  this  borrowed  color  is  mis 
leading,  for  the  colored  glass  itself  gets  its  character 
and  its  name  not  from  the  rays  that  it  absorbs,  but 
from  those  it  lets  go.  A  red  rose  is  one  that  rejects 
the  color  red. 

61 


"MOMMA" 

What  is  true  of  our  appearance  is  true  of  our  deeds 
as  well.  They  are,  and  must  be,  judged  not  by 
themselves,  but  by  the  look  they  wear  in  a  foreign 
glow  that  dyes  them  with  its  own  pigments.  If  you 
disbelieve  it,  read  this  scene,  and  try  to  judge  of  the 
merit  or  demerit  of  the  characters. 


A  child  shrieks  in  wild  fear:  "Papa!    Papa!" 

A  tall  man  laughs  as  he  tosses  the  boy  in  air.  Its 
little  body  falls  safely  into  his  big  hands.  Now  the 
boy  gurgles  with  laughter.  The  tiny  fingers  that 
clutched  space  clasp  the  neck  of  the  man  so  tenderly 
that  he  groans  with  love.  He  crushes  the  pink  frame 
to  his  heart  till  he  wrings  a  cry  of  pain. 

A  moment  of  contentment,  and  then  the  child 
demands  to  be  thrown  aloft  again  into  terror. 

As  the  father  is  about  to  obey,  a  slim,  soft  hand 
is  laid  on  his  arm,  and  a  woman  warns  him: 

"If  some  one  hears  the  baby  call  you  'papa'!" 

The  woman  is  ages  old  to  the  child,  but  hardly 
more  than  a  girl  to  the  man,  who  is  himself  still  a 
JDoy  at  heart.  He  accepts  her  command  and  puts 
the  child  down,  but  it  storms: 

"No,  no,  mamma!    Papa!  Papa!" 

Now  both  of  them  try  to  hush  its  clamor  and  both 
look  about  anxiously.  At  all  costs  the  child  must 
be  entertained.  The  man  drops  to  his  knees,  and 
says: 

"Baby  must  not  call  me  'papa."1 

The  child  insists :  "You  are  my  papa!  You  telled 
me  so!" 

"Yes,  sweet;  but  you  must  not  tell  other  people 

62 


READ  IT  AGAIN 

so.      You   must   not   tell   anybody   you    saw   me 
here." 

"Why?" 

Those  whys  take  a  bit  of  explaining.  It  is  easier 
to  divert  the  mind  than  to  satisfy  it.  The  man  falls 
forward  on  his  hands. 

"Come  for  a  ride!" 

The  mother  lifts  the  boy  and  puts  him  in  the 
saddle,  holds  him  there  while  the  father  hobbles 
about  on  palms  and  knees,  with  many  an  awkward 
pretense  at  curvet  and  caracole,  at  balking  and  back 
ing  and  running  away. 

The  child  shouts  now,  "Gid-dap,  horsie!"  now, 
"Whoa,  horsie!" 

The  mother  laughs.  She  is  not  afraid  so  long  as 
the  child  calls  its  father  a  horse.  At  last  the  steed 
collapses  and  spills  the  rider  on  the  floor.  The 
mother  bends  down  in  the  posture  of  the  crouching 
Venus.  The  father  sits  on  the  carpet.  The  child's 
head  is  on  a  level  with  his  father's.  This  pleases  him. 
He  boasts: 

' '  Looky !    I  am  taller  than  my  papa ! ' ' 

"Yes,  so  you  are,  my  big  man." 

"Why  you  don't  come  more  times  to  see  us?" 

"I — I'd  like  to.     I  will.     I  must  go  now." 

"No!  No!"  Frantic  resistance  and  fierce  pro 
test.  It  is  not  easy  for  the  father  to  rip  the  little 
hands  loose. 

"You  will  take  good  care  of  your  mamma  till  I 
come  again?" 

This  responsibility  inspires  bravery. 

"Yes." 

"And  you  won't  tell  anybody  you  saw  me? 
Promise?" 

63 


"MOMMA" 

"If  you  tell  me  why,  I  promise." 

The  father  gives  up  in  despair.  The  mother  smiles 
wretchedly. 

"How  like  you!  Wonderful  that  he  should  look 
like  you  and  think  and  speak  so  much  like  you! 
He's  a  tiny  pocket  edition  of  you." 

"No;  he  has  your  eyes — your  beautiful  mouth." 

"He  is  both  of  us,  and  neither." 

They  rise  to  their  full  height  and  embrace,  with  a 
bitter  rivalry  in  devotion. 

The  child,  finding  them  suddenly  lifted  into  the 
clouds,  their  faces  hidden  from  him  by  their  clasped 
arms,  hovers  about,  beating  at  his  knees,  twitching 
at  her  skirt. 

Jealous  of  their  mutual  love,  greedy  of  their  com 
mon  love,  he  pushes  between  them.  They  bend 
and  gather  him  into  their  embrace  in  a  kind  of 
trinity.  The  father  reiterates  his,  "I  must  go." 

The  mother  forgets  the  child,  groans,  clutches  him. 

"No!  No!"    A  clock  strikes.    "Yes;  you  must." 

A  footstep  is  heard.  The  woman  blenches.  The 
man  is  startled.  He  turns  and  steals  toward  another 
door. 

The  baby  cries:  "Papa!" 

The  mother  tries  to  restrain  him.  He  breaks 
away,  darts  forward,  crying :  ' '  Papa !  Papa !" 

When  he  arrives,  flying,  his  father  seizes  him, 
smothers  his  mouth  under  a  firm  hand,  pleading: 

"Hush!    For  God's  sake,  hush!" 

And  now  that  you  have  spied  on  this  little  domestic 
scene  through  the  plain,  unstained  glass,  what  do 
you  make  of  the  people,  their  characters,  their 
motives,  their  worth? 

64 


READ  IT  AGAIN 

Does  not  your  guess  rather  show  your  own  char 
acter  than  theirs  ?  What  sort  of  glass  are  you — red, 
blue,  yellow,  or  green?  Would  it  make  a  difference 
to  you  if  you  were  told  that  the  father  is  a  Belgian 
officer  who  marched  with  the  beaten  army  out  of 
Flanders,  who  learned  that  his  home  has  been  taken 
as  a  billet  for  German  officers,  and  has  risked  his  life 
to  be  with  his  little  family  for  a  few  perilous  moments, 
knowing  that  his  presence  will  be  suspected  if  his 
child  is  heard  calling  him  "papa"? 

Read  it  again,  and  see  if  it  makes  a  change  in  the 
quality  of  your  sympathy. 

Then  keep  the  same  people,  words,  acts,  emotions, 
before  you,  but  put  them  under  another  glass. 
Imagine  that  the  father  is  not  a  soldier  who  has 
braved  the  enemy,  but  a  draft  evader.  His  nation 
is  in  peril.  Other  fathers  have  gone  out  to  defend 
their  homes,  but  he  has  been  craven.  His  young 
wife  is  so  rich  that  he  could  not  claim  exemption  on 
her  account.  He  had  preferred  to  run  away  and 
hide,  and  has  now  crept  back  to  borrow  funds  of  his 
wife  and  go  back  into  seclusion.  The  poor,  infatu 
ated  wife  loves  him  in  spite  of  his  cowardice.  The 
child  does  not  know. 

Read  it  again  in  the  light  of  the  belief  that  the 
scene  is  one  of  illicit  love — the  man  the  woman's 
paramour.  Her  absent  husband  trusts  her  and  his 
friend,  and  believes  the  child  his  own.  The  false 
friend  and  the  false  wife  keep  up  their  perfidy.  The 
child  has  overheard  the  truth  and,  all  guileless,  revels 
in  the  hideous  relationship.  The  footstep  that 
frightens  the  two  is  the  step  of  the  home-coming 
husband. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  these  three  are  the  victims 

65 


"MOMMA" 

of  the  chaotic  American  divorce  laws.  In  earlier 
years  the  man  had  long  ago  married  another  woman, 
who  had  deserted  him  for  a  rich  lover,  whom  she  had 
married  after  a  Western  divorce  farce.  Believing 
himself  free,  this  man  fell  in  love  with  this  good  girl 
and  she  with  him.  They  had  been  married  only  a 
few  weeks  when  the  courts  declared  the  Western 
divorce  void  and  invalid.  The  man  was  technically 
guilty  of  bigamy.  To  save  him  and  her  own  name, 
the  girl  moved  to  a  strange  town.  When  the  child 
was  born  she  moved  to  another  town,  pretending 
that  she  was  a  widow,  and  worked  hard  to  support 
her  baby  and  herself. 

The  hapless  father  has  found  her,  but  he  cannot 
free  himself  or  her  or  the  child  from  the  snare  of  the 
law.  He  can  only  leave  her  the  pitiful  protection  of 
the  widow's  disguise  and  his  child  the  shield  of  the 
name  she  has  assumed. 

Does  his  cowardice  seem  to  disgrace  him  now? 


II 

Flattened,  and  wriggling  as  a  snake  lurking  among 
rocks,  a  man  with  blood-matted  hair  crawls  through 
matted  roots  and  vines.  He  lifts  his  head  slowly 
till  his  eye  can  just  peer  above  the  edge  of  a  stone. 
A  bullet  zings,  searing  his  scalp  and  starting  another 
trickle  of  blood. 

He  lowers  his  head,  cursing,  gathers  his  rifle  in  his 
arms,  and  rolls  over  and  over  to  the  shelter  of  another 
bowlder.  He  looks  round  it  cautiously,  smiles  hide 
ously,  thrusts  his  rifle  forward  through  the  weeds, 
and,  taking  aim  with  an  agony  of  care,  fires. 

He  laughs  as  he  sees  the  bullet  strike  one  of  his 

66 


READ  IT  AGAIN 

enemies,  hears  a  "thwuck,"  a  grunt,  a  thrashing 
about.  Then  silence  tells  him  his  foes  are  fewer  by 
one.  But  many  others  are  creeping  toward  him. 
He  is  mad  with  thirst.  His  own  blood  is  salty  and 
quenches  none  of  his  fever.  But  he  will  not  sur 
render.  In  fact,  he  dare  not  if  he  would.  If  he 
should  hold  up  his  hand  it  would  be  shot  off  before 
he  could  pull  it  back.  He  has  killed  too  many  of 
his  enemies  to  be  granted  any  parley.  He  has  in 
deed  decoyed  some  of  them  from  cover,  merely  to 
plant  his  cartridges  in  their  bodies.  They  will  be 
satisfied  only  with  his  life.  He  is  auctioning  it  off 
for  the  highest  price  it  will  bring. 

He  has  picked  his  stronghold  with  care.  Among 
shrubs,  bowlders,  and  weeds  he  finds  a  varied  con 
cealment.  His  enemies  do  not  even  know  how  many 
he  is.  His  three  companions  are  dead,  but  he  fires 
with  their  rifles  and  with  the  cartridges  he  takes  from 
their  gruesome  treasure.  He  wishes  to  God  he  only 
had  water  and  a  little  bread — and  unlimited  ammuni 
tion  !  But  he  has  none  of  these.  His  eyes  are  swollen 
with  dust  and  the  strain  of  sighting.  The  twilight 
is  blurring  everything.  The  night  will  bring  him 
dubious  help.  His  enemies  will  rush  him.  He  may 
yet  escape.  But  if  he  is  doomed  he  will  add  two  or 
three  more  to  the  company  that  will  storm  heaven 
for  judgment  this  night. 

What  is  your  judgment  of  him?  Do  you  want 
him  to  kill  or  be  killed? 

Imagine  him  one  of  a  band  of  murderous  outlaws 
who  have  at  last  been  rounded  up  by  the  sheriff  and 
the  deputies  chosen  from  the  desperate  citizens. 

Imagine  him  an  American  sharpshooter  holding 

67 


"MOMMA" 

a  crucial  point  too  far  advanced  in  the  Argonne 
Forest.  The  Germans  are  counter-attacking  in  force. 

Imagine  him  a  German  sharpshooter  holding  up 
the  American  advance. 

Consider  that  he  and  his  band  are  Mexican  des 
peradoes — pursued  by  cowboys,  or  vice  versa — or 
a  squad  of  American  railway  surveyors  penned  in 
by  hostile  Sioux — or  a  pack  of  scalp-laden  Apaches 
overtaken  by  a  troop  of  cavalry,  and  see  how  your 
opinion  veers,  how  quickly  the  heroism  and  villainy 
change  places.  Though,  in  each  case,  the  people  all 
feel  equal  eagerness  and  anguish  and  justification 
and  are  equally  sincere. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  episode  is  taken  from  one 
of  the  sheep  and  cattle  1  wars  of  our  West.  The 
herders  of  innocent,  silly  sheep  have  been  hated  by 
the  drovers  of  long-horned  cattle.  The  cowmen  com 
plained  that  the  sheep,  nibbling  eternally,  ruined 
vast  pasturage,  since  the  fastidious  cattle  will  not 
graze  where  the  vile  sheep  have  been.  The  cattle 
men  have  just  driven  a  flock  of  a  thousand  over  a 
cliff  in  a  bawling  cascade.  The  shepherds  have 
driven  hundreds  of  cattle  over  another  precipice. 

Now  the  shepherds  and  the  cowboys  are  at  war, 
and  I  forget  which  it  was  that  had  outnumbered  and 
cornered  and  killed  all  but  one  of  these  four  men. 
I  am  not  sure  whether  this  last  fighter  was  a  cowboy 
or  a  shepherd.  Does  it  make  much  difference  to 
you? 

in 

Music  is  floating  through  lighted  windows,  beating 
out  across  a  shadow-striped  veranda  into  the  mur 
murous  realm  of  a  moonlit  surf. 

68 


READ  IT  AGAIN 

A  man  paces  the  beach  in  the  harmonious  air, 
suffering  the  yearning  in  the  music  and  in  the  rush 
of  the  waves  that  always  fall  back  unappeased. 

In  the  brilliant  room  whence  the  music  wells  and 
where  the  dancers  spin,  a  woman  sits  and  taps  her 
little  foot  impatiently  out  of  time  to  the  orchestra. 
She  is  lonely,  though  she  has  been  besought  in  dance 
by  a  procession  of  swains.  Her  heart  flies  out  with 
the  music  to  the  youth  on  the  sand. 

She  has  a  certain  grandeur  of  manner  and  of  garb ; 
her  skin,  indeed,  is  a  garb  of  luxury,  a  fabric  of  ease 
wrought  in  silken  experiences,  with  no  hard  usage 
to  tear  or  stain  it. 

The  youth  on  the  sand  is  in  uniform.  He  is  rugged, 
inured  to  hardships,  open  air,  and  danger.  He  has 
the  look  of  one  who  is  not  afraid  to  risk  his  life,  who 
would  risk  it,  indeed,  with  a  kind  of  gayety,  who 
would  rush  to  meet  danger  with  welcome. 

The  beautiful  woman,  with  a  sudden  resolution, 
pretends  to  be  faint,  and,  bidding  those  she  passes 
good  night,  makes  her  way  from  the  ballroom  on  to 
the  veranda,  and  thence  stealthily  to  the  steps  and 
out  along  the  beach  to  where  the  young  man  waits. 

And  now  he  loses  his  native  courage.  He  greets 
her  shyly.  She  takes  the  arm  he  does  not  offer  and 
marches  along  the  iridescent  sand  with  him.  It  is 
he,  not  she,  that  looks  back  anxiously  to  see  if  they 
are  watched  or  followed. 

They  move  together  silently  to  the  dim  limits  of 
the  music's  reach,  and  there  she  drops  to  the  sand 
and  bids  him  sit  beside  her.  Wayfarers  drift  past 
them  on  the  high  board  walk,  but  the  haze  of  moon 
light  veils  them  from  recognition.  They  are  just  two 
vague  people  whom  nobody  knows  for  who  they  are. 

69 


,  "MOMMA" 

She  says: 

"Well,  I  came.  I  am  here.  I  felt  that  you  might 
be  waiting,  and  I  couldn't  resist.  I  suppose  people 
would  think  me  insane  if  they  knew." 

"Yes." 

"And  yet  perhaps  I  am  wiser  than  I've  ever 
been  before.  It  all  depends  on  you,  after  all." 

"On  me?" 

"Of  course.  On  how  you  feel  toward  me.  You 
haven't  really  ever  told  me." 

"I  don't  know.     I  don't  dare  to  be  sure." 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  are  so  wonderful  and  I'm  only — 
well,  I'm  nothing  at  all." 

"But  if  you  loved  me?" 

"Oh,  everybody  loves  you;  you're  so  beautiful,  so 
wonderf  ul,ko  rich,  and  all !  But  you  couldn't  love  me. ' ' 

"What  if  I  could?" 

"Then  you  oughtn't  to." 

' '  Why  not  ?     I'm  free.     You're  free. ' ' 

"But  there's  such  a  tremendous  difference  in — " 

"Love  is  blind." 

"But  people  are  not.  Everybody  would  hiss  at 
you.  It  wouldn't  matter  about  me.  But  it  would 
be  frightful  for  you." 

"You  darling  boy!  I  don't  care  whether  they  hiss 
or  not,  so  long  as  I'm  happy  with  you." 

"But  you  couldn't  be  happy  with  me,  for  I'm 
nothing — I'm  nobody.  They'd  abhor  you  if  they 
saw  you  with  me  in  this  uniform." 

"You  are  beautiful  in  that  uniform." 

"But  think  what  it  is  in  the  eyes  of  your  people. 
Your  father  would  want  to  kill  you.  I  think  he'd 
try  to  kiU  me." 

70 


READ  IT  AGAIN 

"Are  you  afraid  of  him?" 

"Not  on  my  own  account,  but  on  yours.  He 
would  hate  you,  even  if  he  killed  me.  I  don't  want 
to  cause  you  any  suffering.  That's  the  only  thing 
I'm  afraid  of.'* 

''But  I'd  suffer  a  thousand  deaths  if  I  lost  you. 
I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  it." 

"You'll  get  over  it.  You  mustn't  love  me.  I 
won't  let  you.  I've  no  right  to  your  love.  I'd  go 
away  if  I  could,  but  you  know  I  can't.  So  you  must 
go." 

"Never!  I'm  not  afraid  of  anything  but  losing 
you.  I'd  defy  the  world  for  you.  Now  that  I  know 
you  love  me — for  you  do  love  me,  don't  you?" 

"I  love  you  too  well  to  destroy  your  happiness. 
I  want  to  protect  you." 

"Marriage  is  protection  enough,  isn't  it?" 

"How  could  we  marry — you  what  you  are,  with 
me  what  I  am?  You'd  never  forgive  yourself  or 
me." 

She  sighs,  rises. 

"Well,  I  can't  say  any  more.  You've  broken  my 
heart.  I  hate  you — I  think.  Anyway,  I  won't  bother 
you  any  more." 

On  his  knees,  he  clutches  at  her  hand,  kisses  it. 
She  draws  it  free,  shakes  her  head  in  bewildered  de 
spair,  and  hurries  away,  her  scarf  flying  about  her. 
She  seems  but  a  wraith,  a  scud  of  spume  blown  along 
the  shore. 

She  goes  back  to  the  veranda,  turns  to  stare.  She 
sees  a  blur  on  the  sand.  She  does  not  know  whether 
she  despises  or  adores  him  the  more,  the  love- 
poltroon. 

The  music  begins  like  a  tide  that  softly  turns  from 

71 


"MOMMA" 

ebb  to  flow.  The  feet  of  the  dancers  swish  in  glid 
ing  ripples.  She  joins  the  crowd.  A  number  of  men 
hasten  toward  her.  She  lifts  her  arm  and,  accepting 
the  embrace  of  the  first  to  reach  her,  swings  into  t$e 
eddy,  spinning  with  the  swirl  like  a  lost  soul  in  Hades. 

What  do  you  make  of  her  and  of  the  young  man 
in  uniform? 

Suppose  that  she  is  a  princess  and  he  a  member  of 
the  King's  Own  regiment. 

Read  it  again,  having  in  mind  the  thought  that 
she  is  the  pampered  daughter  of  a  wealthy  patriot. 
She  is  betrothed  to  an  officer  desperately  wounded 
in  foreign  service.  She  has  bewitched  a  young  cor 
poral  in  a  camp  near  the  summer  resort. 

Lay  the  scene  in  Holland.  She  is  an  American 
woman  and  he  an  interned  German  soldier. 

Or  say  that  she  is  a  German  woman  and  he  an 
interned  English  aviator  fallen  within  the  neutral 
lines. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  is  a  rich  young  woman  who 
has  become  infatuated  with  her  father's  chauffeur. 

One  more  experiment  with  the  colored  glasses. 


IV 

A  woman  keeps  rendezvous  in  a  little  house  on  a 
cliff.  She  hears  some  one  open  the  door,  enter  the 
hall.  She  runs  to  meet  the  man.  One  glance  at  him 
changes  her  look  of  welcome  to  a  stare  of  dread. 

He  curses  her  frightened  smile.  His  fury  is  so  great 
that  his  slavered  lips  draw  back  like  a  wolf's  from 
eager  fangs. 

72 


READ  IT  AGAIN 

The  woman  retreats  as  he  advances.  Under  the 
blast  of  his  denunciation,  she  flattens  herself  against 
the  wall,  shivering,  her  palms  now  pressing  the  plas 
ter  at  her  sides  as  if  to  find  a  door  behind  her,  now 
clasped  before  her  in  appeal  to  the  demoniac  man 
who  reviles  her.  She  cannot  scream,  and  there  is 
no  one  to  hear  her.  She  reads  murder  in  the  man's 
eyes  as  he  snarls: 

"Oh,  you — you —  There's  no  word  for  you —  I've 
got  to  kill  you — and  by — " 

She  makes  a  desperate  rush.  He  strikes  her  in 
the  breast,  and  she  flops  back  against  the  wall  and 
slips  to  the  floor. 

He  turns  for  a  weapon  to  crush  her  with.  She 
springs  to  her  feet  and  darts  past  him  to  the  door. 
He  whirls,  slips.  Before  he  can  reach  her  she  has 
closed  the  door. 

He  rips  it  open,  looks  about  the  dark  hall,  sees  her 
stumbling  fleetly  up  the  stairs.  He  follows  in  long 
strides.  She  flings  another  door  shut  in  his  face.  He 
hears  the  key  turn. 

He  hurls  himself  at  the  door,  batters  it  with  knee 
and  shoulder.  It  cracks,  splinters.  He  tears  out  a 
ragged  strip  of  it,  thrusts  his  arm  in,  turns  the  key, 
strikes  the  door  back,  and  steps  in. 

She  is  at  the  window  sill.     She  calls  to  him : 

"If  you  come  near,  I'll  throw  myself  out  on  the 
rocks!" 

He  halts  a  moment,  then,  seeing  how  dangerously 
she  is  poised  at  the  brink  of  death,  leaps  toward  her, 
his  hand  outstretched. 

With  a  little  whimper  of  despair,  she  writhes 
through  and  drops  from  sight. 

He  runs  to  the  window,  leans  out,  and  sees  her 
6  73 


"MOMMA" 

once  graceful,  beautiful  body,  a  broken,  awkward, 
ludicrous  bundle  of  rags  and  flesh  rolling  and  bound 
ing  down  a  shelving  cliff  toward  the  uplifting  arms 
of  the  sea. 

From  the  man's  throat  a  cry  of  anguish  breaks 
forth  horribly.  He  drops  to  his  knees,  sobbing, 
wringing  his  hands,  and  biting  them,  gibbering  the 
woman's  name  in  unbearable  regret. 

This  looks  like  the  ruthless  persecution  of  a  help 
less  woman  by  a  merciless  brute,  such  an  atrocity  as 
a  white-slave  driver  would  inflict  on  a  hapless  rebel 
against  his  vicious  demands. 

It  might  well  be  one  of  the  numberless  instances 
of  a  worthless  husband  compelling  his  wife  to  earn 
on  the  streets  the  money  he  squanders,  and  murder 
ing  her  when  she  mutinies. 

But,  even  so,  why  is  a  brute  a  brute?  What  inner 
torment  persecutes  him  and  drives  him  to  the  frenzy 
in  which  he  persecutes  some  wretch  else?  For  surely 
he  who  makes  a  victim  of  another  must  first  have 
been  himself  the  victim  of  something  else. 

Also,  the  chapter  might  have  been  the  logical  con 
clusion  of  an  actual  incident  such  as  once  a  doctor 
told  me  of,  in  which  a  wife,  mentally  as  bodily  dis 
eased,  decoyed  the  young  friend  of  her  son  to  his 
ruin.  The  boy's  father  learned  the  truth  and  vowed 
to  kill  the  siren.  But  that  man  did  not  keep  his 
threat,  and  the  husband  never  knew. 

Or,  imagine  that  the  woman  was,  as  has  happened 
often  enough,  a  spying  traitress  to  her  husband's 
country.  She  learned  from  him  the  plans  of  his 
regiment  and  sold  them  to  the  enemy,  so  that  her 
husband  led  his  men  into  the  ambush  she  had  made 

74 


READ  IT  AGAIN 

possible.  Having  seen  his  comrades  slaughtered  and 
escaping  from  the  death  trap  alone,  he  has  realized 
that  only  his  wife  could  have  apprised  the  foe  of  his 
marching  orders.  And  so  he  has  returned  to  ad 
minister  himself  the  punishment  she  has  earned  by 
all  the  laws  of  war. 

Under  this  light,  who  wins  your  sympathy — the 
cowardly  wretch  who  bartered  her  husband's  secret 
or  the  vengeful  wretch  who  feels  that  her  destruction 
is  the  one  last  rite  he  owes  to  the  butchered  soldiers 
that  trusted  him?  Perhaps  you  have  even  pity 
enough  to  spare  for  the  woman  suddenly  beholding 
her  own  crime  in  all  its  loathsomeness  and  fleeing 
almost  more  from  herself  than  from  her  husband, 
offering  her  own  life  as  a  sacrifice  to  save  him  from 
having  to  take  it. 

Yet,  again,  this  man  might  be  one  of  those  count 
less  sufferers  who  reluctantly  recur  to  alcohol,  and 
whom  it  occupies  like  an  invading  devil  that  wreaks 
incalculable  mischief  and  then  vanishes,  allowing  the 
bewildered  soul  to  return  and  view,  with  wonder  and 
horror,  the  evil  done  with  his  own  hands  and  voice, 
but  by  another  soul. 

But  this  man  was  none  of  these.  He  was  the 
pitiable  slave  of  an  occasional  insanity,  an  inheritance 
he  could  not  escape  any  more  than  certain  districts 
can  escape  the  tempests  that  haunt  them. 

This  man  loved  this  woman,  and  she  him.  But 
at  times  strange  storms  visited  his  mind  and  altered 
the  aspect  of  everything,  and  then  his  vife  became 
in  his  eyes  a  foul  demon,  an  ancient  succubus,  whom 
heavenly  voices  seemed  to  bid  him  annihilate. 

She  had  paid  heavily  before  for  those  onsets,  and 
her  life  had  been  saved  with  difficulty  by  people  who 

75 


"MOMMA" 

chanced  to  be  near  enough  to  come  to  her  rescue. 
At  last,  at  his  own  request,  he  had  been  put  away  in 
an  asylum  so  that  he  might  not  hurt  the  woman  he 
adored. 

But  after  a  long  period  of  halcyon  peace  the 
guards  had  relaxed  their  vigilance  over  him,  and 
when  the  madness  stormed  back  into  his  poor  brain 
he  had  found  it  easy  to  escape.  With  distorted  cun 
ning  he  had  traced  her  to  her  lonely  haven,  and  in 
the  grisly  light  of  his  frenzy  she  had  appeared  once 
more  to  be  a  vile  witch  to  be  driven  from  the  world 
she  polluted. 

Even  in  her  panic  she  loved  him,  and  felt  sorrier 
for  him  than  for  herself,  knowing  how  bitterly  sorry 
he  would  feel  for  her  when  it  was  all  too  late. 

Love  gave  her  the  final  wisdom  of  pity  and  linked 
them  in  indissoluble  bonds  that  could  not  be  broken 
even  in  that  whirling,  overwhelming  cyclone  that 
we  call  life. 

And  so  one  might  go  on  and  on,  taking  old  familiar 
stories  and,  as  far  as  possible,  changing  the  characters 
without  changing  the  events,  shifting  the  rays  as  the 
calcium  man  does  in  the  theater. 

Delilah  and  Samson  could  be  presented  with  lights 
exchanged,  so  that  she  should  be  such  a  fiery  patriot 
as  Judith  was,  and  he  such  a  foreign  brute  as  Holo- 
fernes  was.  And  Judith  could  be  made  to  appear  a 
fiendish  alien  murderess  and  Holofernes  a  martyr  to 
lier  cunning. 

It  is  all  in  the  lights.  The  French  say  that  to 
understand  everything  is  to  forgive  everything.  Its 
corollary  is  true — not  to  forgive  is  not  to  understand. 
-And  one  might  well  pray  that  the  light  should  always 

76 


READ  IT  AGAIN 

so  shine  through  him  and  return  to  him  that  he  would 
read  everything  in  a  glow  of  mercy. 

But  the  worst  of  it  is  that  one  can  never  know. 
When  the  white  ray  of  all  light  is  broken  into  color, 
we  see  but  a  little  of  it.  Our  whole  rainbow  is  only 
an  inch  or  two  in  a  spectrum  a  yardstick  long. 

The  vast  majority  of  colors  we  have  never  seen 
and  never  shall  see,  though  we  may  boil  water  or 
take  photographs  and  accomplish  other  miracles  in 
the  ultraviolet  and  infra-red  regions  where  all  is  dark 
to  our  eyes. 

Into  those  too  radiant  illuminations  we  can  enter 
only  by  the  imagination.  And,  after  all,  what  else  is 
sympathy  but  imagination  exploring  the  infinite 
space  between  ourselves  and  our  nearest  neighbors  ? 


IV 

THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 


all  four  sides  of  her  father's  house  the  big 
river  was  visible. 

It  came  splendidly  down  from  somewhere  up  North, 
where  she  had  never  been,  turned  sharply  to  its  left, 
marched  gleaming  past  her  father's  house  in  an 
eternal  parade,  turned  sharply  to  its  right,  and  went 
tramping  down  South  somewhere,  where  she  had 
never  been.  Always  and  always  it  kept  on  going. 
The  house  was  set  at  such  an  angle  in  the  sickle 
blade  that  water  was  to  be  seen  at  any  window. 

As  a  wee  child,  Milly  had  thought  that  the  Mis 
sissippi  made  that  gigantic  swerve  just  to  keep  from 
running  over  her  father's  house.  She  had  heard  it 
called  the  "Father  of  Waters,"  and  had  thought  of 
it  as  a  kindly  stream.  In  her  first  geography  lesson 
she  had  read  of  it,  and  felt  greatly  purled  up,  as  people 
do  who  meet  their  acquaintances'  names  in  print. 

Before  she  went  to  school — when  that  she  was  and 
a  little  tiny  girl,  a  mere  lapling — she  had  told  her 
father  that  the  river  went  round  the  house  because 
it  was  good-hearted  and  kind.  Her  father  chuckled 
till  he  almost  shook  her  off  the  platform  of  his  long 
legs,  which  made  a  bridge  from  his  chair  to  the  rail 
of  the  porch.  But  he  agreed  with  her  estimate  of 

78 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

the  river's  benevolence.  He  never  tired  of  musing 
over  the  everlasting  variety  of  the  lights  it  echoed 
from  the  sky.  Her  mother  complained  that  he  had 
never  had  any  ambition  since  they  moved  out  there 
and  he  began  to  spend  all  his  spare  time  mooning  over 
that  stupid  old  stream. 

Her  mother  was  always  at  work  in  the  house.  She 
could  see  no  "sense"  in  the  slow  river,  but  her  father 
found  all  wisdom  there.  He  meditated  upon  it  every 
evening  and  nearly  all  day  Sundays.  The  smoke 
from  his  pipe  puffed  out  like  the  smoke  from  the 
steamboats  that  went  up  and  down  the  water. 

One  evening  papa  said  that  the  river  was  like  a 
person.  It  was  always  changin'  and  always  the 
same;  while  you'd  set  and  watch  the  worter  slidin' 
past,  and  no  two  minutes  runnin'  was  you  lookin'  at 
the  same  worter,  but  yet  you  was  always  a-lookin' 
at  the  same  river.  Folks  were  just  like  that — 
thoughts  runnin'  through  'em,  teeth  and  hair  comin' 
and  goin',  chairs  and  clothes  wearin'  out  under  'em; 
but  they  was  always  the  same  folks. 

Milly  asked  her  father  one  day,  "Was  the  Mis 
sissippi  ever  a  baby  river,  papa?" 

And  he  laughed  like  all-get-out;  but  he  said: 

"O'  course  it  was,  honey.  You  can  tell  by  them 
there  hills  it's  been  a-growin'  and  a-growin'.  A  jol- 
lerjist  can  tell  you  just  how  many  million  years  old 
it  is.  These  bluffs  is  all  fossils  that  was  once  as  live 
as  you  and  me.  This  river  has  took  a  good  while  to 
grow  up.  Maybe  it's  only  a  youngster  yet.  But  it 
couldn't  'a'  wore  this  path  through  them  hills  in  a 
day  or  a  week.  No  sirree-bob ! " 

"Papa,"  she  said,  "are  we  goin'  to  be  fossils,  too, 
some  day,  you  and  me?" 

79 


"MOMMA" 

She  remembered  how  slow  he  had  smoked  before 
he  answered: 

"I  shouldn't  be  supprised,  honey." 

"And  will  folks  pick  us  up  out  of  a  bluff  a  million 
thousand  years  from  now,  papa?" 

"I  shouldn't  be  supprised  if  they  did." 

Her  mother  had  evidently  been  listening,  for  she 
came  out  and  snatched  Milly  from  his  lap  and  said : 

"If  you  got  to  have  such  wicked  notions,  Adna 
Hobday,  you  haven't  got  to  fill  this  poor  child's  mind 
with  'em,  have  you?" 

I       "No,  I  guess  I  haven't  got  to,"  her  father  had  half 
sighed,  half  laughed. 

Her  mother  had  taken  her  in  and  made  her  study 
her  Sabbath-school  lesson;  but  Milly  was  lonesome 
for  the  river.  She  heard  a  steamboat  mooing  down 
on  the  levee,  and  later  she  heard  the  slow  chuff -chuff 
of  its  smokestacks,  the  faint  smack-smack  of  the 
paddles  on  the  wheels,  and  the  tinkle  of  the  bells  in 
the  engine  room.  She  wanted  to  go  out  on  the  porch 
and  see  the  packet  push  by,  but  her  mother  told  her 
to  do  as  she  was  told  for  once. 

Milly  explained  to  her  elder  brother,  Jesse,  about 
how  nice  it  was  of  the  old  Father  of  Waters  to  go 
round  the  house  instead  of  right  through  the  yard, 
and  her  brother  whooped : 

"Why,  you  dern  fool!  'Ain't  you  no  sense  at  tall, 
even  for  a  girl?  The  old  river  goes  round  because 
this  bluff  is  a  big  rock  and  the  river  can't  budge  it. 
Gosh  all  hemlock!  And  you  thought  the  river  was 
bein'  polite  to  the  house.  Don't  you  know  they 
built  the  house  here  and  the  whole  town  here,  too, 
because  this  was  a  place  where  the  river  couldn't  git 
in  ?  Gee !  you  make  me  si-ick ! ' ' 

80 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

Brother  Jesse  was  his  mother's  boy,  very  practical 
and  energetic.  He  would  have  made  a  rich  man  if 
he  hadn't  got  caught  in  a  backwater,  one  of  the  stag 
nant  pools  left  by  the  rivers  of  commerce  where  they 
overflow  and  subside. 

Milly  was  her  father's  girl.  She  inherited  his 
ability  to  dream  wide-eyed  above  waters.  The  river 
became  so  much  a  part  of  her  life  that  it  seemed  to 
run  through  her  soulscape  as  well  as  through  her 
landscape.  It  was  the  very  current  of  her  blood. 

When  she  was  about  six  or  seven  the  Father  in 
heaven  took  her  father  on  earth  away  from  the  world 
and  from  the  back  porch  and  from  the  contempla 
tion  of  the  father  in  the  river. 

Milly  was  very  bitter.  She  had  had  three  fathers  in 
her  life,  and  she  could  not  forgive  the  invisible  one 
for  robbing  her  and  the  river  of  their  favorite. 

Her  mother  was  horrified  with  her.  She  tried  to 
teach  Milly  religion  and  resignation,  but  she  only 
woke  a  fierce  stubbornness  in  the  child,  especially 
when  she  forbade  her  to  spend  hours  on  the  porch 
keeping  her  father's  chair  flopping  back  and  forth 
with  an  uncanny  and  ghostly  persistence. 

Her  mother  could  keep  Milly  off  the  porch,  she 
could  lock  her  in  a  room  for  punishment,  but  she 
could  not  lock  her  in  any  room  where  the  river  was 
invisible,  for,  you  see,  the  house  was  set  at  such  an 
angle  that  water  was  to  be  seen  from  any  window. 

But  when  Milly  grew  old  enough  to  start  to  school 
she  began  to  neglect  the  river  a  little.  She  was  away 
all  day,  and  of  nights  she  had  to  study.  She  loved 
to  study  her  schoolbooks,  too. 

The  pushing  stream  of  her  life,  having  entered  the 
Valley  of  School,  suddenly  rounded  a  curve  and  ran 

81 


"MOMMA" 

into  the  Meadows  of  Love.  Milly  had  reached  the 
advanced  age  of  seven  before  she  learned  what  love 
is  and  what  it  does  to  a  person.  Boys  had  hitherto 
been  to  her  eye  only  brothers  more  or  less  removed, 
more  or  less  disgusting.  But  now  she  met  Hugo 
Ludlum. 

ii 

She  saw  him  first  in  school.  He  sat  a  few  rows 
ahead  of  her,  and  she  was  struck  by  the  exceeding 
cleanliness  of  the  back  of  his  neck,  the  region  abaft 
his  ears,  and  his  white  collar.  His  hair  was  combed 
and  brushed  smooth,  too.  This  was  some  new  kind 
of  boy. 

Milly  longed  for  a  glimpse  of  his  face,  and  when 
he  turned  round  to  watch  the  teacher  at  the  side 
blackboard  she  almost  cried  aloud  at  his  beauty. 
There  was  not  a  smooch  on  his  skin  anywhere,  and 
the  hand  he  raised  to  lean  his  cheek  on  was  white. 
Even  the  fingernails  lacked  the  black  edging  she  had 
supposed  to  be  universal  among  boys.  She  whis 
pered  her  neighbor : 

"Say,  Edie,  who's  'at  boy  with  the  shiny  face?" 

Edie  whispered  back: 

"Why,  don't  you  know  Hugo  Ludlum?  He's 
tur'ble  nice  boy — never  slaps  your  face  nor  pulls  your 
hair  nor  nothin'." 

Milly  gazed  on  him  with  a  tender  awe.  He  was 
more  absorbing  than  the  Mississippi  River. 

She  grew  so  desperate  that  she  could  not  wait  for 
recess  and  a  formal  presentation.  She  wrote  on  a 
piece  of  paper,  "i  lov  u,"  rolled  it  up,  and  flung  it 
at  him.  It  landed  on  the  desk  of  Ikey  Goolup,  the 
champion  sloven  of  the  school,  and  Milly  almost 

82 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

blazed  out  with  chagrin  lest  he  read  it  and  accept 
her  and  marry  her  before  she  could  stop  him. 

But  Ikey  Goolup  assumed  that  the  pellet  was  a 
spitball,  and  he  made  it  his  own,  and  with  great  vio 
lence  and  accuracy  pasted  it  behind  the  ear  of  good 
little  Charlie  Nanry,  who  told  the  teacher  on  Ikey 
and  had  him  sent  to  the  principal  for  a  hot 
palm. 

In  the  excitement  the  incriminating  document  was 
lost  sight  of,  to  Milly's  intense  relief.  At  recess,  the 
insane  child  brushed  past  Hugo,  and  whispered  in 
hog  Latin: 

"I-gray  ove-lay  oo-yay!M 

Hugo  understood  and  fled.  Milly  pursued  him 
for  nearly  two  years  before  she  got  him  infatuated. 

He  called  on  her  once,  and  they  sat  on  the  porch, 
trying  to  think  of  something  to  say.  The  river  sug 
gested  to  Milly  a  topic. 

"I  s'pose  you're  just  achin'  for  it  to  get  warm 
enough  to  go  in  swim'n'." 

"Oh,  I  never  swim,"  said  Hugo. 

"Aw,  go  on!"  said  Milly,  with  light  raillery. 

"Honest,  I  don't!" 

"Who'd  'a'  s'pected  a  big  boy  like  what  you  are 
would  be  a  'fraid  cat." 

"No,"  said  Hugo,  "I'm  not  afraid  of  the  river, 
but  mamma  is.  She's  so  scared  of  it  she  won't  let 
me  go  near  it." 

Milly  was  more  shocked  to  find  her  hero  afraid  of 
his  mamma  than  of  the  river.  She  scoffed  uproari 
ously  and  whittled  her  finger  at  him  until  he 
explained : 

"I'd  love  to  go  in  with  the  fellows,  but  mamma 
carries  on  so.  She  says  I'm  all  the  children  she's 

83 


"MOMMA" 

got,  and  she  cries,  and  so  I  promised  her.     It  hurts 
me,  but  I'd  rather  hurt  me  than  hurt  her." 

Milly  saw  that  there  were  heroisms  that  she  had 
not  dreamed  of. 

"What's  your  mamma  afraid  of?"  she  asked. 

"That  I'll  get  drowneded." 

"Oh,  that  old  river  wouldn't  hurt  you!  That's 
the  nicest  old  river  that  ever  was." 

"But  boys  do  get  drowneded,  mamma  says.  She 
says  every  year  the  river  takes  just  so  many  boys 
away.  There  was  Billy  Tatlow,  you  know,  and  Steve 
Shelley,  and  Robbie  Pulver." 

' ' That's  so, ' '  said  Milly.     "I'd forgot  about  them. ' ' 

"Mamma  says  she  can't  forget  her  own  brother. 
He  was  drowneded  tryin'  to  save  an  old  lady  when 
the  War  Eagle  ran  into  the  bridge  and  was  wrecked 
and  lots  of  people  got  drowneded." 

' '  That's  so, ' '  Milly  whispered.  ' '  I  'member  hearin* 
about  that." 

She  sat  and  stared  at  the  vast  placid  benevolence 
with  a  new  wonder.  Its  twinkling  surface  had  won 
her  trust,  but  she  thought  now  of  the  grim  depths 
beneath.  She  saw  strange  eddies  boring  here  and 
there  like  gimlets,  and  they  looked  cruel. 

Later,  when  the  swimming  season  came  on,  she 
begged  her  brother  Jesse  not  to  go  in,  but  he  gave 
her  the  laugh.  She  implored  her  mother  not  to  let 
him  go,  but  her  mother  told  her  not  to  be  foolish — 
boys  had  to  learn  to  swim. 

Milly  spent  a  day  of  terror,  but  Jesse  came  home 
none  the  worse  for  his  adventure  except  for  a  large 
area  of  sunburn  and  an  earache.  Yet  Milly  was 
glad  that  Hugo  did  not  go  swimming,  because  that 
left  him  free  to  talk  to  her. 

84 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

One  summer  afternoon,  as  Milly  was  going  to  walk 
past  the  Ludlum  home  in  the  hope  of  getting  a 
glimpse  of  her  cavalier,  she  met  his  mother  just 
dashing  through  the  gate  in  a  panic  of  terror.  She 
rushed  past  Milly  without  seeing  her.  The  child 
turned  and  ran  alongside,  gasping: 

"Wha — what's  mat-tatter,  Mizzizzuz  Ludlum?" 

Mrs.  Ludlum  panted: 

"I'm  worried  about  Hugo.  He  hasn't  come  home, 
and  I've  just  had  a  premonition  that  he's  gone 
swimming." 

"But  he  promised  you." 

"I  know;  but  he's  only  a  boy,  and  I — I've  had  a 
premonition." 

Milly  did  not  know  what  a  premonition  was,  but 
it  was  evidently  something  convincing.  So  she 
stumbled  along  with  the  frantic  mother.  They  made 
their  way  out  to  the  edge  of  the  bluff,  to  the  path 
where  the  boys  went  down  to  the  river  to  swim. 

Mrs.  Ludlum  could  make  out  faintly,  far  below,  a 
covey  of  pygmies  in  the  water.  A  few  steps  down, 
and  she  fell  heavily  on  one  hip,  and  sat  rocking  back 
and  forth,  nursing  her  ankle.  She  said  to  Milly: 

"Run  on  down  and  call  Hugo — quick!" 

Milly  darted  along  the  path  sure-footedly  as  a 
little  goat.  She  pushed  through  the  sickly-sweet 
pawpaw  shrubs.  The  hazel  bushes  smacked  her  in 
the  face.  Birds  in  flight  sprinkled  the  air  before  her 
path.  She  paused  on  a  jutting  ledge  in  some  trepi 
dation.  She  was  getting  uncomfortably  close  to  the 
swimming  spot.  She  stood  forth,  and  called  into 
space : 

"Oh,  Hugo!    Hugo  Lud-lu-um!" 

The  boys  stopped  paddling  and  yelping.  They 

85 


"MOMMA" 

stood  waist  deep  in  the  water.  One  or  two  dived  off 
the  bank  for  decency's  sake.  Milly  looked  the  other 
way  and  called  out  of  the  side  of  her  mouth.  She 
heard  her  brother's  well-known  treble  in  the  well- 
known  spirit: 

"Go  on  away  from  here!  Ain't  you  'shamed  of 
yourself?" 

"I  want  Hugo  Ludlum!  His  mother  wants 
him!" 

"He's  not  here!  He  'ain't  been  here!  You  go  on 
away  now,  or  I'll  tell  mamma  on  you!" 

Milly  scudded  back  to  the  top  of  the  hill  with  the 
glorious  news.  Mrs.  Ludlum  picked  herself  up  and 
limped  home,  incredulous  until  she  saw  Hugo  on 
the  front  lawn  fixing  the  hose  so  that  it  would 
shower  the  grass  with  diamonds. 

His  mother  ran  to  him,  and  smothered  him  in  her 
arms  as  if  he  had  come  back  from  the  grave.  He 
explained  that  he  had  lingered  at  the  library  over  a 
book.  He  was  awful  sorry  he  had  scared  his  mother. 
But  she  kissed  him  and  blessed  him,  and  felt  that  she 
had  rescued  her  boy  from  the  maw  of  the  alluring 
youth-devouring  river. 

She  insisted  on  making  a  festival  of  the  supper, 
and  compelled  Milly  to  be  guest  of  honor.  It  is 
always  wonderful  to  children  to  eat  the  food  of  other 
families.  An  alien  table  is  an  island  of  adventure. 

Milly  felt  that  she  was  married  already  to  Hugo, 
and  it  pleased  her  to  fancy  that  the  old  couple  was 
visiting  the  young  folks-in-law. 

After  supper  she  and  Hugo  played  dominoes,  while 
Mr.  Ludlum  read  the  evening  paper  and  Mrs.  Lud 
lum  read  her  work  basket.  The  group  was  so  sooth 
ingly  peaceful  that  Milly  put  away  the  plan  she  had 

86 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

cherished  from  the  far-off  days  of  her  father's  lap- 
kingdom. 

She  and  her  father  had  agreed  that,  when  she  grew 
up,  she  would  marry  the  captain  of  a  steamboat,  so 
that  she  and  her  father  could  explore  those  mystic 
realms  to  the  north  whence  the  river  came  down, 
and  those  legendary  lands  to  the  south  that  the  river 
kept  visiting. 

Sometimes  her  father  would  take  her  down  to  the 
levee  to  watch  a  packet  come  in  or  a  freighter  take 
on  cargo.  Milly  could  not  tell  whether  she  was  more 
fascinated  by  the  human  cargo  in  fine  clothes  or  the 
stuff  that  went  aboard  in  boxes  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  darky  roustabouts. 

There  was  a  friend  of  her  father's,  young  Harley 
Stannard,  only  twenty,  and  already  first  mate  of  the 
Molly  Moore.  And  once  he  took  her  on  his  shoulders 
and  carried  her  about  the  boat.  It  was  a  wonderful 
place,  and  Harley  said  he  was  going  to  marry  her 
when  she  grew  a  little  older.  And  she  had  agreed. 

One  of  her  first  experiences  of  human  perfidy  was 
the  news  that  he  had  married  another  woman  with 
out  asking  her.  She  had  found  out  the  depths  of 
human  levity,  too,  for  when  she  had  protested,  "I 
don't  think  he's  very  nice  to  not  wait  for  me,"  her 
father  had  laughed  and  told  her  to  hurry  and  grow 
or  all  the  men  would  be  married  up. 

She  thought  of  this  now,  and  was  glad  that  she 
had  not  married  Mr.  Stannard  before  she  met  Hugo 
Ludlum.  Besides,  she  could  now  revenge  herself 
on  him. 

She  would  be  more  than  satisfied  to  be  the  wife  of 
Hugo,  who  would  some  day  inherit  the  magnificent 
hat  store  of  his  father.  He  had  indeed  clerked  there 

87 


"MOMMA" 

on  several  occasions,  and  had  been  permitted  to 
paste  the  gilt  initials  of  customers  in  the  nobby  head- 
ware  they  bought,  the  famous  "Fifth  Avenue"  felts 
and  "college  straws"  for  which  Mr.  Ludlum  was  the 
sole  and  exclusive  agent  in  Carthage. 

Mr.  Ludlum  was  as  round  all  over  as  the  crown  of 
any  of  the  derbies  he  sold.  He  was  forever  laughing, 
a  contagious  chuckle  like  the  noise  that  boys  made 
running  along  the  street  with  a  stick  pressed  against 
the  picket  fence  in  front  of  Miss  Malkan's. 

On  this  night  Hugo  and  Milly  grew  so  frantic  over 
a  domino  crisis  that  they  fell  to  laughing  wildly. 
Mr.  Ludlum  dropped  his  paper  and  stood  by  them 
and  laughed  with  them.  This  set  them  off  again. 
Every  time  they  gave  out,  he  set  that  ratchety 
chuckle  going,  and  away  they  went. 

Milly  often  had  these  spasms  of  giggle,  epilepsies 
of  unwelcome  amusement,  especially  in  church.  She 
laughed  now  till  she  was  faint,  sick,  suffocated.  Mrs. 
Ludlum  made  her  husband  let  her  alone.  Then 
Milly  began  to  cry  for  no  reason  at  all.  She  ran 
home  all  by  herself. 

After  that,  Mr.  Ludlum  was  more  careful. 

Late  that  summer,  Milly  wandered  over  to  see  her 
future  mother-in-law.  Hugo  was  away,  and  Mrs. 
Ludlum,  who  was  always  fretful  without  him,  wel 
comed  his  other  feminine  adorer.  She  explained  that 
he  had  gone  across  the  river  with  the  Congregation- 
alist  Sunday-school  picnic.  Milly  said: 

"Oh  yes;  Jesse  has  gone  to  that,  too." 

"I  thought  your  mother  went  to  the  Baptist 
church." 

"Oh,  mamma  does;  but  Jesse  goes  to  the  church 
that's  havin'  the  next  picnic." 

88 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

Mrs.  Ludlum  permitted  Milly  to  help  her  in  the 
kitchen. 

"I'm  going  to  have  Hugo's  favorite  dessert  to-night 
— floating  island." 

"Oh,  I'd  like  to  learn  how  to  make  that!"  cried 
Milly.  "I  really  ought  to,  you  know,  so's  that — " 

She  paused  and  blushed.  Mrs.  Ludlum  smiled. 
She  need  not  be  jealous  of  Milly  yet. 

At  last  everything  was  ready  but  the  prodigal. 
Mr.  Ludlum  came  rolling  up  the  street  and  sat  on 
the  porch  with  his  wife  and  their  tiny  daughter-in- 
law-to-be. 

They  kept  watching  for  Hugo. 

Suddenly  round  the  corner  whirled  a  shabby  old 
depot  hack ;  it  was  plainly  empty,  but  the  well-known 
negro  driver  seemed  to  be  in  a  desperate  hurry.  He 
lashed  the  horses  to  a  run. 

"Wonder  who's  goin'  to  miss  his  train  to-night," 
laughed  Mr.  Ludlum. 

But  the  driver  turned  in  to  the  Ludlum  curb,  threw 
his  weight  backward,  and  checked  the  horses  so 
sharply  that  they  slid  and  their  shoes  scratched 
sparks  from  the  stone. 

The  driver  stood  up  in  his  pulpit,  and  shouted  at 
the  porch: 

"Oh,  Miz'  Ludlum,  your  boy's  drowned!" 

Then  he  struck  out  with  his  whip;  the  horses 
plunged;  the  hack  careened  round  the  next  corner, 
and  was  gone. 

in 

Good  news  can  wait  or  walk.  Bad  news  takes  a 
hack  and  has  the  horses  whipped. 

That  black  messenger  of  Death  never  explained 
7  89 


"MOMMA" 

his  fierce  haste  to  be  the  first  to  blast  the  happiness 
of  that  home. 

He  had  nothing  against  the  Ludlums.  Nobody 
had.  Everyone  loved  them — except  Luck. 

Milly  forgot  her  own  anguish,  her  own  premature 
widowhood,  before  the  spectacle  of  that  plaintive 
little  couple  smitten  to  a  madness  of  grief  at  the  de 
struction  of  their  only  child,  their  final  child. 

They  beat  the  air  so  frantically  with  their  hands; 
they  clung  together  so  like  two  blind  wretches  sink 
ing  in  a  current;  they  made  such  drowning,  gurgling, 
choking  noises  that  Milly  fled  from  them  in  panic. 

She  was  afraid  to  tell  her  own  mother  the  woeful 
thing.  She  was  not  like  the  hack  driver.  She  hated 
bad  news. 

Jesse  was  very  late  for  supper.  He  came  in  scared 
and  craven,  with  a  kind  of  guilt  upon  him  for  being 
even  a  spectator  at  such  a  scene.  From  his  broken, 
reluctant  account,  it  was  easy  to  understand  what 
had  happened. 

A  crowd  of  boys,  wearying  of  the  inanity  of  Sun 
day-school  merriment,  had  struck  out  through  the 
woods  for  any  adventure  that  might  offer  itself. 
Hugo  had  been  hurried  along  with  them.  They  had 
suddenly  come  out  upon  a  shining  floor  of  sand  with 
a  flood  of  shallow  crystalline  water  pirouetting 
across  it. 

They  had  snatched  away  their  clothes  and  darted 
in.  Hugo  alone  had  abstained.  From  the  warm, 
gay  bath  they  had  called  to  him,  dared  him  to 
come  in.  He  had  refused,  remembering  his  mother. 
They  had  made  fun  of  him,  called  him  "Cowardy- 
calf,"  "Mamma's  boy,"  "MissPriss." 

He  was  human — for  once.  He  felt  the  tremendous 

90 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

pressure  of  young  public  opinion.  Suddenly  he 
whipped  off  his  neat  clothes;  he  piled  them  in  an 
orderly  fashion.  He  had  never  undressed  before 
in  the  presence  of  boys  to  whom  nakedness  was 
commonplace.  He  made  haste  to  hide  himself 
in  the  water.  It  gave  him  an  unimagined  delight. 
He  wondered  that  he  had  lived  so  long  without 
this  better  half  of  a  Mississippi  boy's  amphibious 
existence. 

The  other  urchins  swam,  dived,  turned  rude  somer 
saults,  tried  to  see  who  could  stay  under  the  longest. 

Hugo  wished  that  he  had  learned  to  swim.  He 
kept  trying,  marveling  at  the  buoyancy  of  his  friends 
and  his  own  leaden  awkwardness.  The  place  was 
full  of  deep  spots,  holes,  abrupt  step-offs.  Hugo 
must  have  wandered  into  some  such  trap  just  after 
the  other  boys  had  all  seized  their  noses,  gulped  deep 
breaths,  and  ducked  under  in  a  final  test  of  en 
durance. 

When  they  came  up  spluttering,  one  by  one,  and 
had  quarreled  awhile  over  who  had  stayed  down 
longest,  they  called  to  Hugo  to  decide.  He  did  not 
answer.  They  could  not  find  him. 

His  clothes  were  on  the  bank  in  their  neat  array. 
The  boys  were  terrified.  They  could  imagine  him 
sinking  suddenly,  coming  up,  strangling,  beating  the 
water,  crying  vainly,  perhaps,  across  the  surface, 
where  never  a  head  showed. 

They  imagined  him  turning,  smothering,  fighting 
— thinking  of  his  poor  mother,  no  doubt. 

They  grew  afraid  of  this  lying,  cheating  river. 
Even  here,  in  this  innocent  little  bayou,  it  had  way 
laid  one  of  them  and  devoured  him.  They  ran  out 
on  the  sand  in  panic. 


"MOMMA" 

Then,  as  Jesse  said,  they  grew  mad  at  the  river. 
They  dived  in,  and  swam  here  and  there,  thrusting 
down  to  the  depths  with  eyes  open  and  staring,  their 
fingers  traveling  along  the  bottom,  feeling  for  poor 
Hugo  Ludlum. 

They  sought  him  till  they  were  worn  out.  Eddies 
twisted  them ;  slippery  arms  seemed  to  drag  at  them. 
They,  too,  had  mothers  to  think  of.  They  dressed 
and  left  the  place  and  Hugo's  clothes.  They  hurried 
back  to  the  picnic  and  turned  it  to  a  funeral. 

Men  ran  from  there  to  the  river  and  plunged; 
boats  were  found,  and  the  search  in  the  deepening 
twilight  of  the  water  was  going  on  now. 

From  the  porch  of  the  house  Milly  could  see  lights 
moving  on  the  other  side  of  the  river. 

Milly's  mother  ran  over  to  Mrs.  Ludlum's  to  hold 
her  on  this  side  of  madness. 

Mr.  Ludlum  was  down  at  the  river  hunting  for 
grappling  hooks. 

IT 

Three  days  later  the  river  spewed  up  what  it  had 
made  of  the  slim,  silvery  youth  it  had  kidnapped. 
The  sight  revolted  the  strangers  who  found  the  body 
bumping  against  the  mud  banks  three  miles  below. 
They  tried  to  keep  Mr.  Ludlum  from  looking;  but 
he  did.  He  kept  his  wife  from  looking  into  the  coffin. 
It  had  to  be  a  much  bigger  coffin  than  one  would 
have  expected. 

Milly  went  back  to  her  porch  habit.  She  could 
not  keep  her  eyes  off  the  river.  She  studied  it  as  one 
might  study  the  face  of  a  trusted  friend  who  had 
been  guilty  of  perfidy. 

She  asked  it,  "Why?" 

92 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

She  saw  sunflood,  sunset,  moonrise,  star-shower. 
Sometimes,  waking  from  a  nightmare  that  tried  to 
drown  her  in  her  own  bed,  she  would  steal  to  the 
window  and  watch  the  daybreak  draw  the  black 
shroud  of  night  slowly  from  the  stream,  watched  it 
turn  from  the  darkling  shudder  of  a  blacksnake's 
skin  to  the  autumnal  tints  of  a  copperhead's  scales 
and  to  the  gold  and  sapphire  of  just  a  great  river 
a  mile  wide.  But  she  could  not  love  it  any  more. 
She  feared  it  now.  The  shimmer  of  its  surface  was 
always  a  sinister  quivering ;  it  was  reptile,  ophidian. 

Early  that  fall  the  river  captured  a  second  boy, 
Charlie  Nanry,  a  poor  boy  from  the  other  side  of 
Main  Street,  who  had  been  running  across  one  of 
the  great  rafts  that  floated  dead  forests  down  to  the 
Southern  sawmills.  A  log  had  rolled  under  his 
nimble  feet  too  quickly  for  him,  and  he  had  slid  down 
into  the  river.  The  logs  had  closed  over  him. 

That  winter  two  young  men  skated  across  a  sheet 
of  thin  ice.  They  were  not  found  till  the  next 
spring. 

Milly  began  to  keep  toll  of  the  human  sacrifices 
the  old  river  demanded  of  the  populace  it  enriched 
by  the  traffic  it  bore  and  the  regions  it  watered.  She 
read  in  the  papers  the  names  of  boys  in  other  towns 
who  were  pulled  in  as  by  crocodiles. 

A  skiff  ran  on  a  snag  and  sank  with  half  a  dozen 
men  and  women.  Two  steamers  collided.  A  barge 
with  people  on  it  turned  turtle.  A  small  traveling 
circus  boat  caught  fire.  The  river  did  not  put  out 
the  fire,  but  it  gathered  in  people  and  animals. 

Milly  wanted  to  move  away  from  the  river.  But 
people  do  not  move  away  from  danger. 

She  read  of  other  rivers  that  killed,  of  floods  that 

93 


"MOMMA" 

swept  over  dikes,  invaded  streets,  split  concrete 
dams,  mowed  down  villages,  set  houses  spinning  like 
tops  through  strange  scenes. 

She  read  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  and  its  sudden  up 
rising  against  Galveston.  She  read  of  the  ocean  and 
its  tidal  waves  at  Messina,  of  accidents  at  sea,  of  the 
Titanic  and  the  iceberg. 

She  was  haunted  by  an  overwhelming  horror  of 
deep  water,  and,  one  day  at  church,  when  the 
preacher  spoke  of  the  deluge  that  drowned  the  world, 
she  had  to  rise  and  tiptoe  up  the  aisle  to  escape  a 
threatening  paroxysm  of  fear.  But  she  outgrew  this 
obsession  as  she  outgrew  her  childhood,  her  dresses, 
her  schoolbooks,  her  little-girl  ideas.  She  grew  used 
to  the  old  river  and  forgot  it  again  in  the  stream  of 
the  new  terrors  and  raptures  that  sweep  a  girl  along. 

At  length,  she  was  a  beautiful  woman,  nubile,  and 
besought  in  homage  by  the  town  youth  and  by  out- 
of-town  youth. 

Even  Capt.  Harley  Stannard  paid  clumsy  court 
to  her.  He  commanded  a  homely  old  freight  boat 
that  plied  between  St.  Louis  and  St.  Paul  and  made 
her  town  a  halfway  stop  on  each  trip.  He  was  a 
widower  now,  with  a  little  motherless  daughter. 

Milly  liked  him,  and  she  came  to  know  the  voice 
of  his  old  side-wheeler,  the  Amy  /.,  named  after  his 
deceased  wife.  Usually  he  saluted  her  home  on  the 
bluff  with  two  long  calls  and  two  short  ones  from  the 
hoarse  whistle.  He  meant  it  as  a  gallantry,  but 
Milly  could  not  get  over  the  feeling  that  it  was  the 
ghastly  voice  of  the  dead  woman  hooting  at  her. 

Besides,  a  handsome  young  fellow  from  Boston 
came  to  town  at  that  critical  period  and  paid  Com 
monwealth  attentions  to  the  nineteen -year-old  vil- 

94 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

lager,  with  devastating  effect.  He  promised  to  take 
her  East  on  the  honeymoon  when  he  went  back  the 
following  summer ;  nobody  else  had  a  chance  against 
a  young  man  with  a  pleading  background  of  all  that 
the  Eastern  glories  mean  to  the  children  of  the  Middle 
West.  So  Milly  Hobday  consented  to  become  Mrs. 
Lawrence  Trippet  come  next  June. 


Carthage  was  gay  that  fall,  and  Larry  Trippet 
said  that  even  Newport  had  nothing  to  offer  more 
charming  than  the  river  dances  of  Milly 's  home 
town ;  for  it  was  a  custom  there  to  charter  a  steamer 
to  push  a  barge  several  miles  up  the  river  on  moon 
light  nights,  and  drift  back;  and  the  lower  floor  of 
the  barge  was  made  for  dancing,  with  a  platform  for 
the  band  and  a  corner  for  refreshments;  the  upper 
deck  was  like  a  roof  garden  in  Tunis,  where  couples 
could  snuggle  together  in  the  full  moon  glory  and 
whisper  their  communions  while  dulcet  breezes 
fanned  young  men's  glowing  cheeks  with  the  cool 
curls  of  young  women,  and  the  old  steamer's  smoke 
stacks  puffed  like  the  pipes  of  a  great  organ  intoning 
bridal  music. 

During  the  winter  there  were  many  dances  and 
Milly  saw  little  of  the  river  except  for  a  glimpse  of 
it  late,  as  she  bade  Larry  long  good-nights.  It  was 
very  still  under  its  complete  armor  of  ice,  and  every 
thing  in  the  world  was  so  perfect  that  the  fears  of  the 
past  could  not  obtrude  on  the  dreams  of  the  future. 

At  the  first  warnings  of  spring  the  river  grew  noisy. 
The  ice  began  to  split  with  the  sound  of  a  cannonade. 
It  began  to  move  in  solid  sheets;  these  grew  brittle 

95 


"MOMMA" 

and  broke  raggedly  into  cakes  that  crowded  and 
jostled,  climbed  and  bucked  like  passing  droves  of 
white  cattle,  lowing  all  night  and  all  day. 

The  stampede  raged  against  the  piers  of  the  bridge 
and  against  the  stone  ricks  set  up  to  protect  them 
from  the  onslaughts  of  the  ice  packs. 

Open  spaces  of  dark  water  appeared  and  disap 
peared,  and  one  could  feel  that  spring  would  soon 
give  back  the  river  to  its  old  dominion. 

It  would  cease  to  be  a  gray  warrior  and  become 
again  the  mirror  of  all  the  color  moods  of  the  sky. 

In  the  forenoon  of  spring  came  flocks  of  wild  duck. 

They  kept  away  from  the  town  but  fluttered  about 
the  bayous  on  the  other  side  and  sat  upon  the  clear 
intervals  of  open  water. 

Hunters  went  out  along  the  opposite  banks,  but 
it  was  necessary  to  explore  the  ice  wilderness  in  boats 
to  retrieve  the  quarry. 

And  then,  to  Milly's  horror,  Larry  Trippet  re 
vealed  an  interest  in  this  sport.  He  spoke  lightly 
of  his  plan  to  cross  the  river  in  a  skiff  and  to  bring 
her  home  a  feast  of  game. 

When  she  protested  he  laughed.  When  she  for 
bade  him  to  go  he  disclosed  an  unsuspected  willful 
ness.  When  she  wept  with  fear,  her  tears  slid  off  his 
heart  as  if  it  were  a  duck's  back.  When  she  grew 
frantic,  he  left  her  and  went  to  his  boarding  house. 

The  next  morning  she  woke  early.  She  glanced 
from  her  window  to  the  river.  The  sky  was  a  raw 
gray,  and  filled  with  clouds  like  shadows  of  the  cakes 
of  ice.  The  sky  was  a  dismal  parody  of  the  river. 
There  were  no  boats  among  the  ugly  blocks  of  float 
ing  steel. 

After  breakfast,  she  went  again  to  the  chilly  porch. 

96 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

Now  she  saw  a  skiff  well  out  in  the  stream.  One 
man  rowed,  and  one  man  leaned  across  the  bow  with 
a  shotgun  in  his  arm.  She  knew  him  at  once  for 
Larry  Trippet  by  the  red  cap  she  had  knitted  him  to 
wear  when  he  went  skating  in  spite  of  her  pleas. 
She  recognized  Tim  Nanry,  too,  a  levee  loafer,  elder 
brother  of  the  Nanry  boy  who  had  been  drowned 
years  and  years  before. 

The  old  fright  gripped  Milly's  heart.  She  shouted 
from  the  porch,  but  the  wind  blew  her  voice  back 
into  her  mouth.  She  ran  into  the  house,  flung  on 
a  heavy  cloak,  and  hurried  along  the  streets  to  the 
top  of  a  long  wooden  stairway  leading  to  the  river 
level.  There  were  a  hundred  and  twenty-four  steps 
in  that  turning,  rickety  flight.  The  steps  were  slip 
pery  with  frost,  but  she  got  down  them  somehow 
without  accident. 

She  called  from  the  shore,  but  the  boat  had  dwin 
dled  beyond  reach.  It  looked  pitifully  small  as  it 
tossed  in  the  current,  twisting  this  way  and  that  to 
avoid  the  ice  throngs. 

Here,  at  the  water's  edge,  the  full  speed  of  the 
current  was  evident.  It  chased  past,  with  reeling 
floes  of  ice  grinding  together  like  shears.  Some  of 
them  were  shot  into  the  air  and  fell  upon  others  and 
bore  them  under,  only  to  be  smothered  beneath  the 
next  plunging  bulk. 

From  this  level  Milly  could  hardly  see  the  boat. 
She  bethought  her  of  the  bridge,  and  ran  to  it  with 
a  feeling  that  disaster  impended  and  that  she  must 
not  fail  to  witness  it. 

Her  breath  was  puffing  white  like  her  father's  pipe 
smoke.  Her  heart  hurt  her  as  if  some  one  were  jab 
bing  half -open  scissors  into  her  breast. 

97 


"MOMMA" 

She  met  Captain  Stannard  with  his  little  sirl  in 
hand.  The  captain's  boat  was  moored  for  the  win 
ter,  and  he  was  getting  impatient  for  the  spring  to 
release  her  from  the  jail  of  ice. 

"What's  your  hurry,  Milly?"  he  said.  "Slow 
down  and  take  a  walk  with  the  little  one  and  me." 

"I  can't!"  she  gasped.  "There  is  a  skiff  out  in 
the  river,  and  I'm  afraid  it  may  be  in  danger  from  the 
ice." 

"Well,  you  can't  help  much  from  here,  can  you?" 
said  the  captain.  "I  guess  they're  safe  enough. 
Lots  of  fellows  go  out.  They're  after  ducks,  I 
suppose." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.     But  I  was  kind  of  worried." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  worry,  if  I  was  you." 

"Oh  yes,  you  would,  if  you  were  me." 

' '  Well,  maybe  I  would.     Who's  in  the  boat  ? ' ' 

She  hardly  liked  to  fling  Larry  Trippet's  name  in 
his  face  just  then.  So  she  said : 

"Two  men.  They're  too  far  away  now  to  see  just 
who  they  are." 

Then  she  ran  on.  But  he  followed,  dragging  the 
anchor  of  the  little  girl. 

Half  a  mile  out  on  the  bridge  Milly  paused  and 
leaned  on  the  rail,  gasping.  She  peered  into  the 
distance,  where  the  petty  boat  fared  slowly  its  tor 
tuous  path.  She  heard  the  faint  crack  of  the  shot 
gun;  she  saw  wild  ducks  rise  and  wheel  away. 

She  wished  that  Larry  were  braving  death  for  some 
other  purpose  than  to  inflict  it  upon  innocent  pas 
sengers  through  the  sky.  She  had  always  grieved 
over  the  sight  of  slain  wild  ducks  hung  on  hooks  in 
the  markets  or  drooping  in  long  strings  of  glossy 
beauty  and  pitiful  from  the  arms  of  gunners. 

98 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

Captain  Stannard  and  his  child  came  up  and  stood 
peering  into  the  distance. 

From  this  eyrie  the  river  had  a  fearful  vastitude 
and  the  boat  was  a  mere  speck,  like  a  wee  wild  duck 
sitting  there  awaiting  its  doom  from  the  hunting 
river.  Everywhere  ice  blades  clashed  like  bayonets. 
There  was  a  chaos  of  eddies,  of  snarling,  blundering 
beasts,  in  a  mob  of  sullen  wrath.  Below  her,  the  ice 
flashed  beneath  the  bridge  or  charged  the  battle 
ment  with  a  crash  and  a  cry.  It  seemed  to  rush  at 
her  in  wolfish  ferocity,  to  leap  and  snap  and  to  fall 
back  with  a  baffled  rage.  Everywhere  the  river  was 
one  seethe  of  hatred,  of  gnashing  teeth,  of  ruthless 
malignity. 

When  she  searched  the  bitter  wilderness  for  the 
boat  she  could  hardly  find  it  again — it  was  so  tiny 
and  so  far  away.  But  it  was  not  so  far  away  that 
she  was  spared  the  vision  of  what  she  had  dreaded. 

Suddenly  the  dot  was  changed  to  a  dash.  She 
realized  that  the  skiff  had  been  thrust  up  into  the 
air  by  some  lurching  floe.  She  could  just  see  the 
two  little  figures  in  it  sprawling  in  air  with  out 
stretched  arms  against  the  gray. 


VI 

The  boat  vanished  from  the  eyes  of  the  watchers 
on  the  bridge,  and  the  men  with  it.  Milly  could 
not  make  a  sound.  Her  soul  was  occupied  with  the 
business  of  what  Larry's  death  would  mean  to  her. 
Then  she  descried,  on  a  big  cake  of  ice,  a  struggling 
figure.  It  stood  up,  seemed  to  shake  itself  and  wave 
its  arms. 

Her  keen  vision,  focused  like  an  arrow,  made  out 

99 


"MOMMA" 

a  dot  of  red.  It  must  be  the  cap  she  had  made  with 
her  own  hands.  Larry,  at  least,  was  saved.  She 
slipped  down  to  her  knees  and  prayed :  ' '  Thank  God ! 
Oh,  thank  you,  God!"  She  rose  again  and  sent  her 
vision  out  into  the  foggy  blue  through  a  flood  of 
tears. 

Slowly  the  figure  of  her  man  enlarged.  He  was 
drifting  toward  her.  She  laughed  with  a  bliss  of  hope. 
She  pounded  her  cheeks  with  her  fists  and  laughed, 
because,  after  all,  the  crafty  old  river  was  defeated 
of  its  prey. 

She  was  sorry  for  poor  Nanry.  He  must  have  gone 
down  deep.  Perhaps  he  was  beating  now  at  the  white 
ceiling  of  the  river.  She  could  see  that  the  boat  had 
come  to  light  again,  but  it  was  floating  bottom  side 
up,  shoved  and  gored  by  the  ice  floes,  and  bunted  far 
from  Larry's  reach.  It  was  being  left  behind,  indeed, 
by  the  swift  raft  that  carried  him  to  safety. 

But  to  what  safety  ?  The  ice  could  only  bear  him 
to  the  bridge  and  dash  him  against  the  stone  rap  or 
sweep  through  between  the  piers  and  carry  him  on 
down  until  some  of  the  leaping  stallions  of  ice  tram 
pled  him  under  and  he  joined  Nanry  in  the  appalling 
realm  beneath. 

She  was  frenzied  with  her  helplessness.  She  found 
now  that,  besides  Captain  Stannard  and  his  sobbing 
child,  other  people  were  clinging  to  the  bridge  rail 
like  the  rapt  watchers  at  an  arena.  Teamsters  had 
checked  their  horses  to  watch.  A  big  freight  engine, 
moving  slowly  across  the  bridge,  had  come  up  behind 
her,  unnoticed  on  the  tracks,  and  had  stopped  while 
the  crew  stood  at  gaze  in  futile  indolence. 

She  ran  to  the  engine  and  cried  up  at  the  fire 
man: 

IOO 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

"Something  must  be  done  to  save  that  poor  man! 
Quick!  Do  something!  Do  something!" 

"What,  lady  ? "  the  fireman  maundered  at  her. 

Captain  Stannard  was  inspired  with  a  suggestion. 

"Get  a  rope!  Haven't  you  got  a  rope  you  could 
lower  to  him?" 

The  fireman  shook  his  head  in  stolid  idiocy,  and 
the  engineer,  leaning  over  his  sill,  called  down : 

"What  would  we  be  doing  with  a  rope?" 

Captain  Stannard  was  resourceful.     He  said: 

"I've  got  a  cable  on  shore  somewhere.  Come 
along,  boys!  Here,  Milly,  take  care  of  my  baby." 

He  put  a  little  hand  in  hers  and  clambered  up  into 
the  cab.  He  rang  the  bell;  the  engine  snorted, 
chuffed;  the  great  drive  wheels  turned  slowly  and 
less  slowly.  The  engine  stormed  away  with  increasing 
speed  and  dwindled  down  the  tunnel  of  the  ironwork. 

Milly  ran  back  to  the  rail,  clutching  the  doll's 
mitten  of  the  little  girl,  who  stared  through  the  net 
of  iron.  Larry  was  much  larger  now.  He  was  as 
big  as  a  child,  and  he  grew  every  moment.  She 
could  see  that  he  was  flailing  himself  with  his  arms 
to  beat  up  a  little  warmth  in  his  poor  body.  She 
could  hear  him  calling,  but  she  could  not  make  out 
the  words. 

She  ran  out  to  the  track.  The  engine  was  gone 
from  the  bridge.  She  darted  to  the  rail.  Larry 
was  a  young  lad.  She  could  distinguish  what  he 
was  crying.  It  was :  ' '  Help !  Help ! ' ' 

She  shrieked  at  him:  "Wait!  Wait!  Don't  give 
up!" 

She  dashed  to  the  track  again.  The  engine  was  a 
mote  in  the  distance.  Its  bell  was  calling  with  a 
tongue  of  gold : 

101 


"MOMMA" 

"I'm  coming!    I'm  coming!    Make  way!" 

To  and  fro  she  ran.  Larry  was  a  man  now,  her 
own  man.  She  could  make  out  his  beloved  features 
and  the  agony  in  them. 

And  now  the  engineer  and  the  fireman  were  tum 
bling  out  of  the  cab  with  Captain  Stannard.  A  huge 
cable  spilled  after  them  in  writhing  coils. 

They  carried  it  to  the  rail  and  began  to  pay  it  out. 
Milly  leaned  far  over  to  watch  it.  She  would  have 
fallen,  but  Captain  Stannard  caught  her  by  the  knees 
and  pressed  her  back.  And  now  the  rope  was  hang 
ing  as  from  heaven — and  it  reached!  The  passing 
cakes  of  ice  knocked  its  frayed  tip  aside.  Captain 
Stannard  and  the  engineer  and  the  fireman  and  a 
knot  of  other  men  moved  this  way  and  that  to  pre 
sent  the  rope  to  Larry  at  just  the  point  of  his  ap 
proach. 

He  came  toward  it  like  a  circus  rider  standing  on 
the  back  of  a  white  charger  galloping.  Milly  could 
see  the  fierce  look  of  hope  in  his  eyes.  He  was  greedy 
for  life,  but  he  set  his  jaws  and  remembered  to  be 
calm.  The  steed  he  rode  turned  aside  from  the  sharp 
barrier  of  the  ice  break  and  took  the  smooth  course 
between  the  piers.  And  now,  with  a  gleam  of  joy, 
it  ran  beneath  the  bridge  and  was  gone  from  sight. 

Larry  was  free  of  it.  He  had  seized  the  rope  in 
his  firm  grip  and  was  trying  to  climb  it  hand  over 
hand. 

Milly  was  laughing  with  a  ferocity  of  joy,  and 
shouting  to  him  a  fierce  welcome. 

The  men  on  the  bridge  began  to  haul  in  the  rope 
at  Captain  Stannard's  command: 

"Easy,  now!    Heave  away!    Whoa!" 

Larry  rose  slowly,  like  a  spider  climbing  its  own 
102 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

gossamer.  Milly  was  smiling  down  at  his  splendid 
battling  eagerness.  Her  face,  like  a  looking-glass, 
mimicked  his.  The  zest  of  life  changed  to  an  un 
certainty — a  startled  anxiousness,  a  grim  frenzy,  a 
ghastly  understanding  of  the  leering  wit  of  Fate. 

His  frozen  hands  were  slipping  along  the  rope; 
his  numb  fingers  were  but  wooden  pulleys  on  the 
rope.  The  rope  came  up  with  a  sudden  lightness, 
for  Larry  had  slid  down  its  length,  had  gone  down 
into  the  water  like  a  leaden  plummet. 

Captain  Stannard  was  so  furious  at  the  defeat 
that  he  began  to  climb  to  the  rail.  He  would  have 
dived  blindly  in,  but  his  little  child  caught  at  him, 
and  screamed: 

' '  Papa !    Papa !    Don't  leave  me ! " 

Even  Milly  put  out  her  hand  idly  to  stay  him  from 
the  useless  sacrifice.  And  he  dropped  back,  breath 
ing  heavily. 

Beneath  her  eyes  Milly  saw  only  a  rush  of  ice — 
ice  everywhere  beneath,  above,  all  across  the  river, 
on  to  the  horizon,  streaming  down  from  the  north 
— endless  fragments  of  ice. 


VII 

The  river  was  beautiful  again  with  summer,  ab 
solved  and  renewed  in  innocence  again,  before  Milly 
was  able  to  bear  the  sight  of  it.  She  crept  out  to 
the  porch  from  her  bed,  and  there  it  was  as  before, 
wide,  serene,  a  playground  of  sunbeams,  a  miracle 
of  jewelry.  She  could  hear  the  faint  shouts  of  boys 
swimming  in  it.  It  was  a  Saturday,  and  school  was 
out.  New  boys  had  grown  up  to  go  down  to  the 
river  and  pay  the  tax  it  exacted  every  year. 

103 


"MOMMA" 

As  the  pious  Hindu  lives  unresistingly  among  the 
cobras  that  slay  his  people  and  may  some  day  slay 
him,  so  Milly  accepted  the  river,  worshiped  it  in  a 
way,  hated  it,  revered  it.  There  was  no  use  fighting 
it.  It  could  not  be  killed  or  driven  away  or  appeased. 
Its  whims  could  not  be  foretold.  It  was  a  god;  it 
had  its  own  reasons,  its  own  way. 

She  stared  at  it  now,  and  wondered  at  its  cruelty, 
and  could  not  deny  it  responsibility.  She  tried  to 
employ  her  reason  and  accept  it  as  a  simple  accident, 
a  congress  of  waters  electing  the  valley  that  lay 
easiest  to  its  passage.  But  her  reason  lost  the 
wrestle  with  the  ancient  instinct  that  coerced  her 
into  feeling  that  it  was  a  being,  a  monster,  alive, 
moody,  basking,  replete,  purring,  hungry,  ravening, 
insatiable. 

Milly  was  as  helpless  before  the  river  as  before  the 
long,  white  star-stream  across  the  heavens.  She 
was  such  a  little  thing  and  they  were  both  so  un- 
thinkably  huge.  They  broke  her  brain  as  their  in 
fluences  broke  her  heart. 

Helpless  as  the  river  to  change  its  course  or  be 
other  than  it  was,  she  let  the  waters  of  life  flow 
through  her.  The  ice  about  her  heart  melted  and 
ran  away.  Warm  floods  of  happiness  over  little 
things  like  health  and  music  and  averted  misfor 
tunes  and  pains  assuaged,  made  spring  and  summer 
in  her  soul.  Autumn  came,  and  winter  was  bleak 
once  more.  But  spring  was  just  as  ruthless. 

She  hated  to  be  glad  of  anything  after  the  sorrows 
she  had  known,  but,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  knew 
happiness  at  times,  and  she  knew  the  yearnings  for 
love,  too. 

The  life  of  the  town,  of  the  nation,  flowed  on  like 
104 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

another  river — an  invisible  river  that  carried  some 
to  prosperity  and  fame  and  others  to  shame  and  to 
death. 

People's  emotions,  loves,  hates,  appetites  for  food, 
drink,  and  attention,  for  kisses  and  money,  warmth, 
ecstasy,  wild  words,  bright  pieces  of  gold,  and  shin 
ing  stones,  for  converts  to  religions  or  passions  or 
political  creeds — everything  was  rivers  flowing  through 
hearts. 

On  dark  nights,  in  the  moonlight  on  the  shadowy 
steps  of  the  river  banks,  on  the  glowing  porches,  in 
the  dimly  lighted  rooms,  strange  streams  of  desire 
were  enriching  certain  souls  and  drowning  others. 
Behind  the  curtains,  under  the  dark  awnings  of  the 
trees  along  the  walks,  rivers  of  dark  longing  were 
bearing  people  beyond  their  depths,  swirling  them  in 
eddies  that  lost  them  their  sense  of  direction. 

Passions  froze  into  ice  and  chilled  the  currents  of 
kindliness,  and  the  ice  went  out  in  rushes  of  hatred 
— loud  quarrels  that  wrecked  families  and  tore  kins 
folk  apart.  Then  warm  winds  and  warm  waters  put 
to  sleep  not  only  hatred,  but  the  rigors  of  duty,  too ; 
and  dear,  sweet  people  who  meant  well  drifted  into 
currents  that  swept  them  out  of  their  depths.  Young 
couples,  wading  cautiously  among  emotions,  came  to 
step-offs  and  were  drowned  in  mad  raptures  of  hor 
ror,  clutching  at  each  other  to  mutual  ruin. 

Milly,  going  by  the  school  one  day,  where  she  had 
been  a  little  girl  and  had  fallen  in  love  with  Hugo 
Ludlum,  saw  that  there  was  commotion  among  the 
petty  citizens  of  the  girls'  school  yard.  It  was  re 
cess,  but  instead  of  the  usual  riot  of  games  there  was 
a  hush  of  ill  omen. 

Somebody's  daughter  moved  here  and  there  and 
8  105 


"MOMMA" 

put  all  the  others  to  flight.  Milly  watched  them, 
wondering  if  the  lonely  child  had  some  contagion  that 
the  others  feared.  But  she  saw,  by  the  upturned 
noses  and  the  sneering  retreat  of  the  others  from  her 
approach,  that  the  contagion  was  moral  and  social. 

She  saw  the  ostracized  tot  pause  and  clench  her 
eyelids  against  scalding  tears,  and  then  run  to  the 
fence  and  hide  her  face  in  her  arms  and  weep  in  an 
ague  of  despair. 

Milly  called  to  one  of  the  children — the  little  Stan- 
nard  girl  it  was: 

"Oh,  Amy,  come  here,  please!  Who  is  the  child 
that  is  crying?" 

Amy  answered :  * '  Don't  you  know  ?  That's  Lulu 
Kennen." 

"What  has  she  done?" 

"NothinV 

"Then  why  do  you  treat  her  so?" 

Amy  flushed  and  stammered  and  ran  away. 

As  Milly  waited  and  wondered,  the  bell  rang;  the 
children  swarmed  back  into  the  hive  and  their  noise 
was  quenched. 

The  Kennen  child  noted  the  silence,  turned,  and 
found  herself  alone  in  the  desert  of  the  empty  school 
yard.  Milly  knew  that  the  child's  mother  was  dead. 
She  had  gone  fishing  with  her  husband  from  a  barge 
and  had  fallen  into  the  river.  Milly  felt  a  double 
pity  for  her.  The  little  girl  was  more  afraid  of 
solitude  than  of  the  mob.  She  ran  to  the  school 
door,  paused,  and  dreaded  to  enter.  Then  she  made 
the  terrific  resolve  to  play  truant,  and  came  stealthily 
toward  the  gate. 

She  was  startled  when  she  found  Milly  waiting  for 
her.  She  shrank  back,  but  Milly  put  out  her  hand. 

106 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

Lulu  took  it  in  amazed  obedience  to  the  gesture  of 
an  elder. 

"What's  the  matter,  Lulu?"  Milly  asked. 

"I'm  all  right,  I  guess.  I'm  just  goin'  home.  I 
don't  want  to  go  to  this  school  no  more." 

"Why  not?" 

"'Cause  the  girls  won't  play  with  me." 

' '  Why  won't  they  ?    What  have  you  done  ? ' ' 

"Nothin'.  They  don't  mind  me,  'cept  they  say 
— they  say  my  sister  has  been  awful  bad." 

' '  Your  sister  Rosie  ? ' ' 

"Yessum." 

Milly  had  known  Rosie,  a  pretty  thing  with  a  lot 
of  youth  in  her  glowing  cheeks  and  a  vague  reputa 
tion  for  recklessness. 

"Why,  what  has  Rosie  done?"  she  asked,  anx 
iously. 

"She  'ain't  done  nothin',  neither,  but  only  be  sick. 
Aunt  Judy  came  over  and  was  afraid  Rosie  was  goin' 
to  die,  and  Rosie  cried  awful  hard;  but  she's  lots 
better  now,  and  the  doctor  came  and  brought  her 
the  cutest  little  baby.  But  the  yother  chillern  say 
she's  bad  and  they  won't  play  with  me,  and  I  don't 
see  why.  Do  you?" 

Milly  felt  her  heart  grow  sick.  The  river  of  Life 
had  caught  Rosie  Kennen  off  her  feet  and  drowned 
her,  and  now  it  flung  her  back  to  the  daylight,  a 
repulsive  wreck.  She  felt  that,  somehow,  the  hand 
of  the  child  in  hers  carried  a  stain  of  the  tragedy. 
She  felt  a  desire  not  to  be  seen  with  the  innocent 
victim,  but  she  was  ashamed  of  the  desire  to  escape 
from  her  compromising  charity,  and  fought  down  her 
impulse  to  disengage  her  hand  from  the  fingers 
wrapped  about  hers  like  little  cold  fishing  worms. 

107 


"MOMMA" 

She  forced  herself  to  walk  home  with  Lulu.  But  she 
could  not  force  herself  to  go  in  and  speak  comfort 
to  the  girl  who  had  found  the  current  too  swift. 

The  next  afternoon  Milly  read  in  the  paper  the 
story  of  the  drowning  of  Lulu  Kennen.  She  sprang 
to  the  porch  rail  to  stare  at  the  river.  What  was  its 
fearful  power  that  even  a  lonely  child  should  go  to  it  ? 

The  paper  told  how  a  man,  mowing  grass  on  the 
bluff,  had  seen  a  little  girl  loitering  about  the  bank, 
far  below.  He  had  wondered  what  she  was  looking 
for.  He  saw  her  take  off  her  hat,  put  a  paper  in  it, 
and  a  small  stone  on  the  paper,  then  walk  straight 
down  into  the  water.  After  a  few  hesitant  steps 
she  had  suddenly  disappeared,  then  come  up  again, 
her  face  lost  in  the  mass  of  her  hair  as  in  seaweed. 
The  current  had  caught  her  and  dipped  her  under 
and  lifted  her  up.  It  was  like  a  baptism. 

He  had  run  toward  her,  shouting,  but  a  passing 
railroad  train  had  cut  him  off  from  the  shore,  and 
when  it  had  gone  he  could  see  no  trace  of  her. 

The  only  record  of  her  bitter  career  was  her  hat, 
and  in  it  this  note: 

Dere  rosie  ime  sorie  to  leaf  yu  but  nobodie  woant  play  wit  me 
so  ime  goan  to  tri  to  finde  mama  ile  give  her  yur  love  yur  loveign 
Eistre  lulu,  tel  papa  goodby  wen  he  cums  hoam. 

v 

Milly  felt  the  little  fishing  worms  of  the  child's 
fingers  about  her  own,  and  shuddered.  The  fingers 
seemed  to  cling  and  squirm,  then  let  go  slowly. 

She  ran  to  her  mother  with  the  story.  Her  mother 
shook  her  head  and  wisely  closed  her  heart  against  a 
tragedy  that  she  could  not  cope  with.  She  protected 
herself  with  a  canny  saying: 

"It  looks  like  a  punishment  on  Rosie  Kennen, 
108 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

don't  it?  I  hope  it  '11  be  a  lesson  to  her — and  to 
some  of  these  other  girls  that  go  about  so  free." 

"Oh,  mother!"  Milly  groaned,  and  stole  away 
from  her.  A  punishment!  Were  these  all  punish 
ments,  these  deaths?  Was  Hugo  Ludlum  seized  by 
an  angry,  spying  school-teacher  of  a  Deity  because 
he  could  not  resist  the  appeal  of  bright  waters? 
Was  Larry  Trippet  tortured  and  teased  with  hope 
as  an  extra  rebuke  for  risking  his  safety  in  the  ice? 
Were  the  War  Eagle's  victims  punished  for  trusting  the 
brave,  proud  vessel  that  carried  them  to  their  fate? 

Some  impulse  of  protest  drove  Milly  to  the  home 
of  Rosie  Kennen,  who  was  punished  with  life,  as 
with  death,  as  if  the  little  daughter  she  had  incurred 
had  crowded  the  little  sister  from  a  pier  into  the 
river. 

On  her  way  she  met  Amy  Stannard  stumbling 
along,  her  eyes  lost  in  tears.  She  saved  the  girl  from 
walking  off  into  a  ditch,  and  asked  her  why  she  was 
crying. 

"'Cause  I  been  mean  to  Lulu,  and  I  wouldn't 
speak  to  her.  And  she's  went  and  drownded  her 
self,  and  Jesus  don't  like  me  no  more,  and  I  don't 
like  myself,  and  I  ought  to  go  and  jump  in  the  river, 
too,  only  for  not  being  good  enough  and  too  scared, 
too.  Oh,  I'm  so  mis'ble!  I  wisht  I  was  dead,  'stead 
of  Lulu." 

Milly  took  her  home  and  went  on  to  the  home  of 
Rosie.  The  old  vines  were  a  shroud  about  the  place. 
The  very  doorposts  seemed  to  bear  a  warning  that 
the  plague  had  been  here. 

She  heard,  before  she  knocked,  the  cry  of  a  peevish 
infant  with  a  just  grudge  against  the  world.  Rosie's 
shamefaced  aunt  opened  the  door  and  looked  star- 
log 


"MOMMA" 

tied  when  she  recognized  Milly.  She  was  voluble 
with  the  disgrace,  and  she,  too,  prated  of  punishment. 

Rosie  was  abject.  She  had  fallen  from  the  wild 
chariot  of  Romance  and  the  wheels  had  passed  over 
her.  She  poured  out  upon  Milly 's  heart  the  long 
story  of  her  ignominy.  She  was  still  more  amazed 
than  repentant.  Her  repeated  question  was: 

"Why?  Why  did  all  this  have  to  happen  to  me? 
Other  girls  have  been  worse  than  what  I  was,  and 
nobody  even  knew.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  bad.  You 
believe  me,  don't  you?" 

A  score  of  times  Milly  vowed  that  she  believed  her. 
And  she  did.  She  was  worn  out,  at  last,  with  the 
vanity  of  pity. 

Rosie  had  drowned  in  Life  more  hopelessly  than 
Lulu  in  Death. 

It  was  the  river  of  Life  that  was  to  blame  for  the 
death  of  souls.  Some  dived  in  without  heed  and 
swam  about  at  will.  Some  were  dragged  or  thrust 
in,  and  the  waters  closed  over  them.  All  mankind 
kept  playing  about  the  bank,  and  this  insatiable  river 
also  collected  its  annual  toll  of  victims  from  the 
youth  of  the  town. 

Seeing  the  havoc  it  had  wrought  in  the  once  all- 
mirthful  Rosie,  Milly  suddenly  understood  the 
treachery  of  love.  She  had  felt  its  calm,  enticing 
warmth,  and  had  recoiled  from  its  sudden  rushes. 
Now  she  grew  more  afraid  of  its  mysterious,  invisible, 
eternal  current  than  of  the  other  Mississippi. 


VIII 

She  grew  afraid  of  life,  of  friendships,  even.     She 
went  to  no  more  parties,  looked  on  the  moonlight 

no 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

alone,  and  watched  the  world  from  her  porch  as  she 
watched  the  river. 

By  and  by  her  mother  died,  and  grew  tenderer  in 
memory  than  she  had  been  in  life.  Jesse,  the 
rough  boy,  became  a  man,  a  machinist  of  a  certain 
cleverness. 

Her  mother  left  the  house  to  Milly.  It  was  all 
she  had,  so  she  stayed  there,  telling  herself  that  she 
hated  the  river,  but  never  quite  daring  to  divorce 
herself  from  it. 

Her  brother  married  and  could  spare  her  no  more 
money;  so  she  took  to  giving  music  lessons.  There 
were  many  children  in  town  whose  parents  wanted  to 
keep  them  out  of  mischief  by  chaining  them  to  piano 
stools.  Milly's  fees  were  very  reasonable,  if  one  did 
not  demand  too  much  information  or  skill  for  the 
money.  So  she  kept  alive  in  the  pinched  existence 
of  a  condemned  old  maid. 

One  of  her  pupils  was  the  swiftly  growing  daugh 
ter  of  Capt.  Harley  Stannard,  still  a  peripatetic 
widower.  Amy  had  grown  by  now  to  the  age  for 
embarking  in  a  shallop  of  romance.  She  wanted  to 
make  music  for  the  allurement  of  youth  and  the  ex 
pression  of  the  melodies  dancing  through  her  heart. 
She  was  engaged  to  at  least  one  young  man,  and 
spent  a  large  part  of  her  lesson  hours  telling  Milly 
how  wonderful  he  was. 

Milly,  a  resigned  old  maid,  began  to  feel  an  envy 
of  so  much  bliss — an  envy,  even,  of  the  danger. 

She  had  moored  her  heart  against  the  dock  to 
wait  decay,  but  the  winter  began  to  wane  in  spite  of 
her. 

Sometimes  when  the  Amy  J.  was  laid  up  for  re 
pairs  or  cargo  or  was  in  hibernation,  Captain  Stan- 

iii 


"MOMMA" 

nard  would  be  seen  in  the  offing  of  Amy's  music 
lessons. 

Milly  grew  used  to  him  as  to  the  river.  He  began 
to  talk  with  her  as  she  left  the  house.  Sometimes 
she  would  linger  for  a  few  words  with  him  after  Amy 
had  been  reprieved  and  allowed  to  escape.  Some 
times  Captain  Stannard  would  stroll  home  with 
Milly. 

The  next  winter,  especially,  he  paid  her  courtesy. 
On  cold  days  he  hated  to  let  her  go  into  the  lonely 
house  alone.  She  hated  to  leave  him  outside  on 
the  walk.  They  seemed  to  realize  each  other's  feel 
ings  ;  but,  of  course,  she  could  not  invite  a  man  into 
her  house. 

That  was  a  long  winter,  and  it  grew  more  and 
more  difficult  for  Milly  to  keep  from  saying  the 
terrible  words: 

"Won't  you  come  in  a  minute,  Captain?" 
It  was  spring  that  dissolved  the  ice  into  a  gentle 
dew.     And  one  spring  evening  the  captain  came 
over  and  rang  her  doorbell.     She  went  out  to  him, 
and  they  sat  on  the  porch  a  long  while. 

He  came  again,  and  he  began  to  urge  her  to  give 
up  her  lonely  life  and  take  pity  on  his  lonely  life. 

She  had  not  the  courage  to  say,  "Yes,"  or  yet 
"No."  She  did  not  answer  at  all,  which  would  have 
been  answer  enough  for  anybody  but  the  sort  of 
man  the  captain  was. 

Then,  one  balmy  evening,  when  the  very  air  was 
an  appeal,  when  the  breeze  had  fingers  to  caress  the 
hair  and  mellow  the  heart  of  one,  the  captain  called, 
and,  after  a  long  while  of  lazy  talk,  he  said : 

"Milly,  I'm  taking  my  boat  out  again  to-night. 
She  starts  her  trips  again.  You've  never  been  up 

112 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

the  river — or  down  it,  either,  for  that  matter — have 
you?" 

"No,  Captain." 

"Well,  why  in  thunder  don't  you  come  along  with 
me  and  make  a  real  voyage  for  once?" 

"Why,  Captain!" 

"As  m'  wife,  o'  course." 

"Why,  Captain!" 

"We'll  be  loaded  along  about  ten  o'clock,  I  guess. 
We  could  get  married  to-morrow,  somewheres  up 
the  river,  if  you  feel  shy  about  goin'  to  church  with 
me  here.  You  could  sleep  in  my  cabin.  I'll  be  up 
all  night,  anyways.  It  would  rest  you  consid'able 
to  sleep  on  the  water,  I  imagine.  Why  don't  you? 
You're  gettin'  nowheres,  here  all  by  yourself,  and 
I'm  gettin'  nowheres  but  old,  and  up  and  down  the 
river.  Amy  is  gettin'  ready  to  marry;  then  I'll  be 
as  alone  as  you  are.  I  think  we'd  make  out  right 
well  together,  Milly.  Come  on  and  gimme  a  chance 
to  make  you  happy,  you  poor,  sweet  child!  I  just 
can't  bear  to  leave  you  here  alone  another  summer. 
Won't  you  come  along,  Milly  honey — won't  you?" 

The  only  argument  against  his  prayer  was  that 
there  was  no  argument  against  it.  Milly  had  grown 
to  suspect  smooth  surfaces.  They  meant  hidden 
danger.  She  did  not  believe  in  happiness  any 
more.  She  hated  herself  for  it,  but  all  she  could 
say  was : 

"Thank  you  ever  so  much,  Captain.  But  I  don't 
see  how  I  could." 

He  seemed  to  read  the  hopelessness  in  her  very 
kindliness.  He  groaned: 

"All  right  for  you!     Good  night." 

It  wrung  her  heart  to  watch  him  go.     The  click 


"MOMMA" 

of  the  gate  that  let  him  out  sounded  like  the  click 
of  a  jail  door  locking  her  in. 

The  click  of  her  own  door  behind  her  was  a  double 
lock.  As  she  paused  in  the  empty  blackness  of  the 
house  she  wondered  why  she  was  such  a  fool. 

A  great  glow  of  light  at  a  window  told  her  why. 
It  was  the  river.  She  was  afraid  to  leave  it. 

It  drew  her  out  to  the  porch. 

The  grandeur  of  it  in  the  sheen  of  moonlight  smote 
her  to  an  awe.  It  had  sapped  her  life.  It  had  taken 
her  lovers  away,  her  childhood  sweetheart,  and  the 
husband  of  her  choice.  It  was  jealous  of  her.  She 
was  the  bride  of  the  Mississippi.  It  would  tolerate 
no  rivals. 

She  had  tried  to  give  her  heart  elsewhere,  but  it 
had  taken  swift  revenge  in  murder.  If  she  had 
accepted  the  happiness,  the  comfort,  the  companion 
ship,  at  least,  the  captain  offered,  the  river  would 
undoubtedly  have  slain  him,  too.  His  boat  would 
have  gone  down  in  some  wild  conspiracy,  and  he 
would  have  joined  Hugo  and  Larry. 

But  what  a  mockery  of  wedlock  was  hers!  The 
river  gave  her  no  recompense  for  her  devotion.  It 
was  one  of  those  gods  that  take  all  the  slaughter  of 
doves  and  lambs  and  blood  and  life,  and  never  relent 
or  answer  a  prayer. 

Suddenly  a  queer  thought  pierced  her.  She  had 
never  gone  to  the  river.  She  had  never  given  herself 
into  the  hands  of  this  mystic  spouse  of  hers.  She 
had  feared  him  or  admired  him  from  afar.  What  if 
she  should  go  to  him  as  a  bride  and  trust  him? 

Well,  and  if  she  did,  what  wedding  gift  could  he 
give  her?  Just  one:  peace — unbroken  peace. 
Troubles  and  disappointments  -and  anguishes  and 

114 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

fatigues  and  all  the  uglinesses  of  the  world  were 
visited  upon  people  who  walked  the  earth.  But  for 
those  who  went  down  into  the  waters  there  was  the 
bliss  of  silence.  There  would  be  a  little  suffering  at 
first — such  terror  as  brides  endure — but  thereafter 
and  ever  after,  peace. 

She  seemed  to  understand  at  last  what  the  river 
had  been  trying  to  tell  her  all  these  years.  She  heard 
it  calling  now.  With  its  countless  eyes  it  watched 
her,  and  its  low  murmur  was  the  one  word,  "Come!" 
repeated  over  and  over. 

IX 

Without  pausing  for  a  shawl  or  a  hat  she  descended 
from  the  porch  to  the  grass,  and  slipped  down  the 
steep  terrace  to  a  toppled  gate  in  the  lower  fence.  It 
opened  on  a  grassy,  unused  road  that  led  into  the 
traveled  street. 

Without  once  losing  sight  of  the  river,  she  made 
her  way  to  the  long  and  rickety  hundred  and  twenty- 
four  steps.  She  slipped  down  these  without  taking 
her  eyes  from  the  hypnosis  of  the  shining,  shivering 
stream. 

No  one  else  was  abroad  at  this  moment,  and  she 
crossed  the  gravelly  railroad  tracks  to  the  brim  of 
the  river — the  spot  where  she  had  come  down  to 
watch  Larry  Trippet's  boat. 

Then  there  had  been  a  huddle  of  ice;  now  there 
was  a  gush  of  molten  silver.  She  went  with  gingerly 
steps  to  the  margin,  where  the  water  felt  along  the 
pebbles  with  white,  searching  fingers.  She  was  mor 
tally  afraid,  but  the  wet  earth  gave  way  beneath  her 
slippers.  Her  ankles  were  clasped  by  warm  hands. 
The  edge  of  her  skirt  was  fluttered  by  the  eddies. 

"5 


"MOMMA" 

Suddenly  she  was  in  to  her  knees.  She  put  a 
cautious  foot  forward,  but  she  found  no  support  for 
it.  She  was  on  the  edge  of  one  of  those  step-offs 
that  had  betrayed  so  many  who  could  not  swim. 

She  could  not  swim.  She  was  afraid.  She  tried  to 
return  to  the  bank.  She  writhed  backward,  twisting 
at  the  waist,  clutching  for  the  solid  earth. 

There  seemed  to  be  a  great  scurry  in  the  waters, 
as  if  some  one  rose  from  them  to  grasp  her.  With 
a  weak  cry  of  utter  fear  she  whirled  round.  Her 
hands  clutched  cinders  and  rough  mussel  shells.  But 
they  were  good. 

She  was  free  of  the  river  again.  Firm  ground  was 
beneath  her.  Her  feet  squeaked  in  her  wet  shoes ; 
her  skirts  dripped,  but  she  was  out  of  the  danger. 

She  was  stricken  with  a  palsy  of  terror.  She  was 
too  weak  to  face  the  long  climb  to  her  lonely  house. 
She  stumbled  along  the  railroad  track.  Suddenly 
she  came  round  the  buttress  of  the  bluff  into  the 
bright  lights  of  the  levee. 

She  saw  the  Amy  J.  moored  close  ashore.  Her 
tall  smokestacks  were  streaming  with  smoke.  Red 
lanterns  were  hung  here  and  there.  The  gang 
planks  slanting  to  the  levee  were  filled  with  proces 
sions  of  big  ants  laden  with  barrels  and  boxes  from 
the  diminishing  heaps  on  the  ground.  The  black 
roustabouts  were  hustling  back  and  forth,  singing 
and  grunting. 

The  first  mate  was  busy  among  them  with  harsh 
curses  and  gestures  and  blows.  From  the  upper 
deck  came  a  mellow  voice,  big  with  authority : 

"Handsomely,  there — handsomely,  now!  We  got 
to  git  off  right  soon!" 

It  was  her  captain's  voice.  He  stood  on  the  head 
116 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

of  his  mighty  ship,  commanding  it  as  a  mahout  con 
trols  an  elephant. 

Milly  stood  and  watched  him  with  a  distant 
adoration. 

The  mountain  of  bales  and  barrels  was  vanishing. 
She  wanted  to  call  to  him  good-by  and  warn  him 
against  the  jealous  river.  But  she  could  not  find  a 
sound  in  her  throat.  Yet  she  drew  nearer  and 
nearer,  unwittingly.  And  at  last  he  saw  her  in  the 
glare  of  the  arc  lamps.  He  shaded  his  eyes  with  his 
hands.  He  started  to  call  to  her,  but  turned  back 
on  his  deck  and  disappeared. 

He  was  angry  with  her.  And  with  reason  enough. 
She  turned  away,  rejected  indeed. 

She  heard  big  feet  on  the  rough  cobbles.  A  voice 
followed  her. 

4 'Is  that  you,  Milly?" 

She  paused  till  he  came  up. 

"What  you  doin'  down  here?" 
-  "I  don't  know,"  she  mumbled,  humbly. 

He  considered  her  a  moment.  Then  his  habit  of 
command  took  hold  of  him. 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "You  came  down  here  to  go 
along  with  me." 

"Did  I?"  she  whimpered,  not  daring  to  contradict 
so  potent  a  man. 

"You  bet  you  did!  And  you're  just  in  time."  He 
had  her  little,  thin  arm  in  his  big,  fat  hand,  and  he 
was  carrying  her  forward  in  a  policeman  way  when 
she  protested: 

"But  I  didn't  bring  any  clothes  or  anything." 

"Get  plenty  of  clothes  up  the  river.  And  I'll  buy 
'em  for  you — the  kind  of  clothes,  too,  you  ought  to 
have.  I  guess  you  won't  miss  what  you're  leavin' 

117 


"MOMMA" 

behind  when  you  see  what  I'll  fit  you  out  in,  you 
God-blessed  little  pitiful  angel,  you!" 

He  led  her  up  the  gangplank  among  the  last  of 
the  deck  hands.  They  were  in  such  a  hurry  they 
had  no  time  to  notice  the  captain's  prisoner. 

Milly  yielded  because  she  had  no  strength  to  fight. 
Anybody  could  have  carried  her  off.  She  thought  it 
was  a  lucky  thing  that  it  happened  to  be  the  captain. 

He  led  her  through  the  cargo,  up  a  flight  of  narrow 
steps,  out  on  the  upper  deck  and  into  a  cabin. 

"Make  yourself  at  home,  Milly.  It  ain't  what 
you  ought  to  have,  but  you  can  fix  it  up  to  suit  you 
to-morrow.  I  got  to  leave  you  now  and  cast  off, 
and  I'll  be  mighty  busy  all  night.  Me  and  the  old 
river  have  been  fightin'  each  other  my  whole  life. 
Old  Mr.  Mississip  is  all  right  if  you  watch  him.  I 
know  every  durned  dimple  in  the  current.  So  you 
needn't  worry.  I'll  see  you  in  the  mornin'.  Good 
night,  honey.  It's  the  goodest  night  I  ever  saw. 
Do  you  mind,  honey?" 

He  had  kissed  her  on  the  forehead.  It  was  like 
a  seal  of  possession  and  protection. 

She  sank  down  in  his  big  chair  and  looked  about 
the  room,  at  his  table,  his  papers,  his  washstand,  his 
bunk.  Funny  things,  men !  She  saw  a  lot  of  changes 
she  could  make  to  improve  this  room  for  him,  to 
make  it  livable  and  worthy  of  him. 

She  had  forgotten  herself  already ;  and  that  is  the 
supreme  blessing. 

She  heard  loud  cries  outside,  the  captain's  voice 
hushing  all  the  others. 

' '  Stop  that  cussin' !    There's  a  lady  aboard ! ' ' 

She  heard  the  racket  of  the  gangplanks  coming  in, 
the  ting-a-ling  of  a  bell  in  the  engine  room.  She  felt 

118 


THE  FATHER  OF  WATERS 

the  current  take  the  boat,  and  her  old  fear  eddied 
round  her  heart.  But  the  heart  of  the  steamer  took 
up  its  pulse.  The  paddles  spanked  the  water  into 
submission. 

The  steamer  forged  forward  and  outward  from 
shore.  Through  the  window  she  could  see  the  town 
lights  shifting  backward.  In  spite  of  all  the  Missis 
sippi  could  do,  the  old  boat  went  right  ahead.  It  was 
a  divine  victory.  And  the  soul  river  had  not 
drowned  her.  She  was  to  be  one  of  those  who  would 
build  a  home  by  that  stream.  She  had  been  saved 
from  drowning  in  either  flood;  she  was  divinely 
lucky. 

After  a  while  she  peeped  out  of  the  door.  No  one 
was  about.  She  went  to  the  side  deck  and  watched 
the  water.  The  current  seemed  doubly  swift  with 
the  counter  progress  of  the  boat.  The  current 
fought,  resisted,  then  went  on  down  the  river  in 
vain  surrender. 

She  climbed  another  flight  of  steps  and  came  out 
on  the  open  upper  deck  into  the  sky.  A  strange 
man  was  in  the  little  temple  of  the  pilot  house — a 
forward-staring  man,  turning  the  big  wheel  this  way 
and  that.  And  the  boat  obeyed  him. 

And  he  obeyed  the  captain.  She  could  hear  the 
captain  telling  him  what  to  do. 

And  he  did  it. 

She  found  a  place  to  sit  abaft  the  pilot  house. 
Above  her  the  smokestacks  towered.  From  their 
heights  streamed  one  long  black  mantilla  that 
touched  the  water  far  back  of  the  steamer,  back  of 
the  big  waves  that  poured  from  the  hidden  wheels 
in  their  circular  cages  and  joined  to  form  a  rolling 
wake  of  huge,  smooth  billows. 

119 


"MOMMA" 

The  moon  was  dazzling.  It  swept  the  billows 
with  brushes  of  silver  as  fast  as  the  night  absorbed 
them. 

The  town  fell  away  into  the  gloom.  The  well- 
ordered  stars  and  the  placid  moon  and  the  radiant 
prairie  of  the  waters  made  a  paradise. 

The  captain's  voice,  calling  to  the  pilot,  was  the 
best  thing  in  that  paradise.  The  river  was  a  mighty 
river,  but  it  had  found  its  master.  And  so  had  she 
found  hers. 


V 
INNOCENCE 


ROUND  and  round  the  May  pole  the  little  girls 
danced,  smiling,  laughing,  panting  with  joy — 
girls  with  their  hair  flying,  their  white  skirts  flicking 
their  white  stockings,  their  white-shod  feet  spurning 
the  greensward.  A  brass  band  under  a  tree  added 
music  to  the  other  graces. 

Round  and  round  the  little  girls  danced,  flaunting 
their  left  hands,  holding  their  right  hands  high  where 
they  clutched  the  ribbon  spokes  of  the  wheel  they 
made.  Round  and  round  they  wove  and  unwove 
the  pattern  of  the  dance,  twined  and  intertwined 
their  scallopy  paths,  braiding  their  orbits  in  a  plaited 
garland  of  delight. 

Whittemore,  who  had  arrived  just  in  time  to  wit 
ness  the  festival,  said: 

"Good  Lord!  I'm  glad  I  didn't  miss  this!  It's 
enough  to  turn  a  town  cynic  into  a  human  being 
again." 

He  had  been  invited  to  the  country  house  of  the 
Robys,  whose  daughter's  portrait  he  was  painting. 
He  was  painting  her  for  money  and  he  hated  the  job, 
because  Miss  Candace  Roby  seemed  to  him  to  know 
too  much.  She  was  the  very  symbol  of  the  notorious 
influence  of  riches  on  character. 


"MOMMA" 

He  was  tired  out  with  city  ways  and  people,  and 
he  hungered  for  the  fresh,  sweet  countryside. 

Mrs.  Roby  had  said  something  indistinct  about 
exercises  somewhere  at  some  school.  Whittemore 
promised  himself  that  he  would  escape  this  also. 
But  when  his  train  deposited  him  on  the  village 
platform,  he  found  Mrs.  Roby  herself  awaiting  him 
with  a  motorload  of  guests. 

Mrs.  Roby  murmured  something  about  having  to 
go  right  over  for  a  while  to  the  exercises,  because 
she  was  on  the  board  of  managers  or  something; 
but  as  the  others  were  all  talking  at  once,  Whitte 
more  did  not  catch  the  details.  They  turned  into 
a  well-groomed  estate  and  stopped  among  a  throng 
of  parked  automobiles,  most  of  them  glossily 
expensive. 

Everybody  got  out  and  walked  talkingly  across  a 
fine  lawn  in  a  quadrangle  of  handsome  buildings. 
Benches  in  the  shade  were  occupied  by  fashionable 
people,  such  as  the  fathers  and  mothers  of  fashion 
able  girls'-school  girls  would  be. 

The  May-pole  dance  was  in  full  swirl  as  Whitte 
more  came  up,  and  his  artist's  eye  was  captivated 
by  the  picture  effect.  It  was  a  painting  of  swiftly 
shifting  beauties,  a  living  frieze,  as  if  the  Partheno- 
nian  nymphs  had  come  to  life  and  set  to  prancing  to 
music. 

The  gay  postures  of  the  girls;  their  limber  lines; 
their  sinuous  curvetings;  the  magic  co-ordination 
that  turned  the  arm  this  way  when  the  head  went 
that,  inclined  the  shoulder  as  the  knee  was  bent; 
the  fascinating  swirls  of  their  draperies  and  ribbons; 
the  sweeping  strokes  the  wrinkles  drew  each  instant 
and  each  instant  erased;  the  blur  of  fleeting  color 

122 


INNOCENCE 

as  this  pale  hoyden  with  the  red  hair  was  driven 
round  the  circle  by  that  russet  maiden  with  the  black 
pennant,  and  she  by  the  gold-skinned  damsel  with 
the  auburn  tresses,  and  she  by  the  rosy  virgin  with 
the  yellow  fleece,  and  so  on  till  the  red-haired  hoyden 
came  into  view  again  and  vanished  again — all  these 
things  held  the  painter  spellbound. 

It  was  hypnotizing,  too,  to  watch  the  shuttle  of 
character;  for  each  girl  carried  round  the  ring  a  soul 
that  was  unlike  every  other  soul  and  flashed  its  dis 
tinct  identity  for  a  moment. 

The  guileless  rapture  of  the  dance  renewed  Whitte- 
more's  lost  illusions.  It  was  good  to  be  here  where 
good  little  girls  romped  and  skylarked  so  prettily. 
Their  hearts  were  fresh  crystal  vessels  newly  come 
from  the  hand  of  the  glassblower  of  souls.  Life  had 
not  yet  poured  into  them  its  vinegar. 

"Innocence!     Innocence!"  he  sighed  to  himself. 

He  was  startled  out  of  his  reverie  by  Mrs.  Roby's 
voice. 

"I  want  to  present  you  to  Miss  Haley,  the 
wonderful  woman  who  is  in  charge  of  all  these 
souls." 

He  turned  and  bowed  and  shook  hands  with  a 
woman  whose  grip  showed  the  same  power  as  her 
eyes.  They  were  kindly,  but  they  did  not  strike  him 
as  poetic.  She  accepted  his  compliments  for  the 
May-pole  dance  without  excitement.  She  looked  as 
if  she  had  given  up  getting  excited. 

The  band  finished  its  tune.  The  dance  ended,  the 
girls  stopped  short,  breathing  hard  and  tossing  their 
heads  like  ponies  after  a  race.  Their  shining  eyes 
had  the  same  self-conscious  embarrassment  of  suc 
cessful  race  horses. 

123 


"MOMMA" 

Mrs.  Roby  wandered  off  to  shepherd  her  other 
guests,  and  Miss  Haley  said,  with  idle  courtesy : 

"Your  first  visit  here,  Mr.  Whittemore?" 

"Yes,  my  first.  Great  privilege,  too.  And  a  great 
privilege  for  you  to  have  all  this  beautiful  family, 
eh?" 

"Oh  yes.  The  responsibility  is  a  trifle  heavy,  but 
—I  like  it." 

"You  must  be  mighty  good  to  them.  They  seem 
so  happy.  It  will  be  a  pity  to  turn  them  all  out  into 
the  world." 

Miss  Haley's  comment  puzzled  him. 

"Perhaps;  but  they  wouldn't  think  so,  I'm  afraid. 
It  was  hard  enough  to  get  them  in." 

"Oh,  children  always  cry  when  they  leave  home 
first." 

"'Always'?"  Miss  Haley  asked,  incredulously. 

"I  don't  mean  the  runaways,  but  I  mean  tender 
little  things  like  those.  They're  as  pink  and  downy  as 
peaches  still  clinging  to  the  tree.  It  makes  my  fieart 
ache  to  think  of  what  the  world  will  do  to  them." 

"But  think  what  they  will  do  to  the  world,"  said 
Miss  Haley. 

There  was  a  subacid  bite  in  her  voice  that  made 
Whittemore  wince.  This  was  no  time  or  place  for 
satire.  But  he  had  to  be  polite. 

"Of  course,"  he  conceded,  "some  of  these  girls 
may  turn  out  bad  after  the  world  has  spoiled  them, 
but  it  won't  be  their  fault.  All  the  more  reason  for 
being  glad  to  get  a  glimpse  of  them  before  they  open 
their  eyesjand  lose  their  innocence." 

' ' '  Innocence '  ? "  said  Miss  Haley. 

The  woman  was  becoming  a  nuisance,  a  sarcastic 
echo.  She  patronized  him  abominably. 

124 


INNOCENCE 

"They're  so  versatile  in  their  innocence,  those 
children,"  he  said.  "Such  different  ways  of  being 
unstained.  I  don't  go  in  much  for  the  sort  of  sen 
timental  painting  they  make  into  chromos  and  calen 
dars  and  guest-room  allegories.  But  I'm  so  sick  of 
doing  the  portraits  of  bored  and  boring  society  girls 
who  know  it  all  that  I'd  just  dote  on  putting  some 
of  these  little  angels  of  yours  on  canvas.  It's  hope 
less,  I  suppose,  to  think  of  it." 

Miss  Haley  amazed  him  by  acceding  to  his  mood. 

"Perhaps  not.  We're  always  glad  to  have  our 
girls  do  anything  they  can  to  make  a  little  money — 
decently." 

This  commercial  suggestion  followed  by  the  word 
"decently"  jolted  Whittemore  like  a  double  blow. 
He  gasped. 

"You  don't  mean  that  you'd  let  me  paint  them 
and  pay  them?" 

"Why  not?     It's  honest  money,  isn't  it?" 

"Of  course,  but — but — you  mean  that  I  might 
really  get  that  big-eyed  one  there  for  a  model?" 

"I  don't  see  why  not." 

"You're  not  afraid  of  me?" 

'  'Not  if  you're  not  afraid  of  her,"  said  Miss  Haley, 
reverting  to  her  bewildering  manner.  ' '  I  was  think 
ing  that  the  little  darling  might  steal  something  from 
you  or  do  something  to  get  you  or  herself  into  trouble 
with  the  police." 

Whittemore  began  to  wonder  if  he  had  wandered 
into  an  insane  asylum  by  mistake,  on  a  field  day  of 
the  lunatics.  If  so,  Miss  Haley  was  the  wildest 
witted  of  all. 

"Perhaps  you're  a  little  overfed  on  girlish  inno 
cence,"  Whittemore  ventured,  "with  so  much  of  it 


"MOMMA" 

about  you.  I  suppose  everything  gets  tiresome  in 
excess — even  innocence." 

"Innocence'!  We  seem  to  be  at  cross-purposes 
somewhere." 

"I  don't  know  much  about  girls,  but  I  think  I  can 
tell  innocence  when  I  see  it.  I'd  love  to  immortalize 
that  particular  little  saint  over  against  the  tree." 

"But  where  do  you  think  you  are?" 

"I  didn't  catch  the  name  of  the  school  when  Mrs. 
Roby  told  me." 

"This  is  the  Northforth  Reform  School.  Most 
of  these  girls  are  here  because  their  parents  or  the 
police  found  them  absolutely  incorrigible,  vicious, 
and  corrupt." 

There  was  something  paralyzing  about  this,  as  if 
Miss  Haley  had  planted  a  hammer  on  the  very  solar 
plexus  of  Whittemore's  mind. 

"You  really  mean  that  all  those  girls  are  bad?" 

Miss  Haley  saw  how  she  had  punished  him.  She 
tried  to  help  him. 

"I  don't  blame  you  for  being  fooled  by  the  little 
darlings.  They'd  fool  anybody.  They  fool  me  con 
stantly.  As  for  their  really  being  bad  or  good,  that 
gets  us  into  pretty  deep  water  for  discussion  on  a 
busy  day.  Every  one  of  these  girls  has  her  good 
points.  They  have  to  have,  for  nobody  is  all  bad. 
But  as  for  innocence,  if  there  is  any  wickedness  they 
don't  know,  it  must  have  been  invented  recently, 
and  they'd  just  love  to  be  told  about  it." 

Whittemore  was  staggered  mentally,  physically, 
spiritually.  He  asked  permission  to  sit  down. 

The  other  exercises  went  on  regardless  of  his  moral 
earthquake.  From  one  of  the  buildings  a  long  pro 
cession  wound,  made  up  of  older  prisoners  in  a  string 

126 


INNOCENCE 

of  human  beads  of  all  colors,  including  many 
negresses.  The  band  played  a  march.  Most  of  the 
women  had  selected  men's  costumes  of  one  sort  or 
another,  Miss  Haley  evidently  believing  that  they 
had  long  since  passed  the  point  where  any  harm 
could  be  done  them  by  such  a  masquerade. 

Having  been  enlightened  as  to  the  personnel  of 
the  institution,  Whittemore  saw  in  the  women  what 
he  now  expected,  but  he  was  amazed  to  see  how  aver 
age  they  were.  Some  of  them  were  handsome,  but 
most  of  them  were  not. 

Another  theory  was  knocked  overboard — the  an 
cient  and  beloved  delusion  that  beautiful  women 
make  up  the  ranks  of  wickedness.  Some  of  the 
fiercest  of  these  ex-priestesses  of  evil  were  ugly, 
ungainly,  and  forbidding;  many  of  them  looked  like 
respectable  members  of  churches,  farmers'  wives  and 
daughters,  substantial  village  housewives.  And 
many  of  them  would  no  doubt  have  led  humdrum 
lives  but  for  some  accidental  encounter  with  a 
switchman  who  shunted  them  off  the  main  line,  or 
with  some  broken  rail  or  wheel  that  wrecked  them 
utterly. 

The  older  girls  marched  on  and  on.  Whittemore 
was  not  attracted  by  their  costumes — they  were 
merely  burlesques  as  policemen,  firemen,  baseball 
players,  soldiers,  sailors — altogether  too  hippy  and 
busty  and  fat  at  the  knee. 

Each  of  them  must  have  had  a  marvelous  soul, 
and  a  history  that  would  have  been  precious  to  an 
understanding  inquirer,  but  Whittemore  found  them 
all  too  inartistic  to  win  his  concern. 

He  was  sick  at  heart.  He  turned  his  eyes  from 
the  long,  slow  parade  to  the  cluster  of  nymphs  still 

127 


"MOMMA" 

drooping  about  the  idle  May  pole.  "Nymphs"  was 
a  better  word  for  them  than  he  realized,  for  they 
had  just  about  the  morality  a  nymph  would  have 
if  she  had  an  existence  to  be  moral  or  immoral  with. 

The  girls  were  distributed  in  careless  attitudes, 
watching  the  parade  and  thinking  themselves  un- 
watched.  Some  leaned  against  the  pole ;  a  few  hung 
on  one  another's  shoulders  in  groups  of  two  or  three ; 
the  rest  had  dropped  to  the  ground  and  crouched, 
or  sat  hugging  their  knees,  or  reclined,  supporting 
their  little  chins  on  the  palms  of  their  hands. 

The  sunlight  loved  them.  The  breeze  blessed  their 
hair  and  their  gently  fluttered  ribbons  and  frocks. 
They  laughed  or  mused  or  scowled  at  the  sun. 

The  big-eyed  one  that  Whittemore  had  singled 
out  for  his  most  distinguished  admiration  sauntered 
across  the  grass  with  girlish  gracelessness,  yet  with 
the  helpless  grace  of  a  kitten.  She  was  so  lithe  that 
her  bones  seemed  to  be  made  of  willow.  Her  huge 
eyes  wandered  aimlessly,  reveling  in  light  and  color, 
looking  for  no  admiration  and  forgetting  that  she 
was  woman.  Her  mouth  was  full  and  kissable  as 
a  baby's,  and  as  free  of  any  thought  of  kissing.  Her 
cheek,  her  brow,  her  throat,  were  all  virgin — a  white 
vellum  on  which  time  had  written  nothing  at  all. 

She  turned  her  eyes  toward  Whittemore  as  she 
neared  him,  without  seeing  him  or,  at  least,  without 
detaching  him  from  the  other  spectators.  He  studied 
her  in  an  anguish  of  examination,  trying  to  find  a 
hint  of  her  record  or  of  the  expert  hypocrisy  that 
could  give  a  little  criminal  the  mien  of  a  seraph. 

He  found  no  faintest  sign — not  so  much  of  a 
wrinkle  as  a  snowbird's  feet  leave  in  the  snow. 

He  could  only  believe  that  Miss  Haley  had  slan 
ts 


INNOCENCE 

dered  her,  or  that  some  one  had  borne  false  witness 
against  her  and  sent  her  here.  Her  beauty  was  as 
purifying  as  it  was  pure.  It  inspired  a  feeling  of 
fatherliness,  of  piety,  of  prayer,  of  an  Easter  lily 
with  sacred  dew  sweet  upon  it. 

Whittemore  felt  holy  words  stirring  within  him. 
He  longed  to  give  that  sanctified  image  to  the  world 
and  to  posterity,  for  an  emblem  to  live  toward.  He 
returned  to  Miss  Haley's  offer  to  let  her  pose  for 
him.  It  became  a  pious  duty  to  fix  that  face  on 
canvas  before  life  could  mar  it. 

He  asked,  anxiously,  "You  were  serious  when  you 
offered  to  let  me  paint  this  child?" 

"Perfectly.  How  do  you  mean  to  pose  her ?  You 
weren't  thinking  of — of — " 

"Oh  no!  I  want  her  just  as  she  is  now — as  the 
May-pole  girl.  I  don't  want  to  paint  pretty  flesh; 
I  want  to  get  that  inspiring  soul  on  canvas.  I'll 
come  up  here  and  paint  her  if  I  may." 

"Very  well.  I'll  give  you  a  room  at  any  time." 
Miss  Haley  lifted  her  finger  a  little  and  focused  her 
voice.  "Nadine!" 

The  girl  jumped  like  a  commanded  soldier  and 
came  forward. 

"Is  her  name  Nadine,  really?"  said  Whittemore. 

"She  probably  took  it  from  a  movie,"  said  Miss 
Haley. 

Whittemore  felt  a  stage  fright,  and  Nadine  was 
plainly  a  little  frightened,  too.  But  perhaps  she  was 
afraid  of  Miss  Haley.  Whittemore  was  afraid  of 
Nadine.  Miss  Haley  said: 

"Nadine,  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Whitte 
more." 

"Pleased  to  meet  you,"  said  Nadine,  in  a  voice 
129 


"MOMMA" 

as   shy   and   limpid   as   a  brook's  lurking  in  the 
leaves. 

Whittemore  put  out  his  hand  and  received  hers — 
a  soft,  cool  hand,  as  unemotional  as  a  bouquet.  It 
gave  his  no  pressure,  and  he  let  it  go. 

He  felt  a  curious  terror  of  the  child.  She  was  so 
impossible,  so  incompatible  with  her  reputation.  He 
was  ready  to  be  her  champion  against  the  foul  tra- 
ducer  or  the  jealous  fiend  who  had  denounced  her. 
She  stood  looking  off  at  the  strolling  visitors  till 
Whittemore  spoke. 

"I've  been  watching  you  dance,  and  I  want  to 
compliment  you." 

Nadine's  big  eyes  went  first  to  Miss  Haley  as  if 
for  confirmation  of  what  she  had  heard,  then  for 
permission  to  look  at  Whittemore.  Then  they  rolled 
his  way.  There  was  an  effect  of  moonrise  in  them, 
moonrise  on  a  still  pool.  She  said,  with  diffidence: 

"Thank  you,  sir.  I  am  glad  that  you  liked  our 
dance.  We  have  all  enjoyed  our  exercises  very 
much.  Miss  Haley  is  very  kind  to  allow  us  to  have 
them.  Do  you  not  think  so?" 

She  spoke  it  like  a  little  girl  making  up  a  composi 
tion  for  her  teacher.  The  articulation  of  every 
syllable  was  labored  and  unnatural.  But  this  only 
proved  her  innocence  the  more.  Whittemore  wanted 
to  hug  her  as  one  clenches  a  baby  that  has  recited 
its  "Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

A  doll  had  spoken.  There  was  no  passion  or  guilt 
or  knowledge  in  her  manner  toward  this  avowed 
admirer.  Surely,  if  she  were  what  Miss  Haley  said 
she  was,  she  would  have  begun  to  ply  her  fascina 
tions  by  now. 

Miss  Haley  said: 

130 


INNOCENCE 

"Mr.  Whittemore  is  an  artist,  Nadine."  The  eyes 
widened  farther,  politely.  "He  would  like  to  paint 
your  picture."  The  eyes  softened  and  warmed  with 
a  very  human  note.  She  was  too  innocent  to  con 
ceal  her  pride.  Miss  Haley  went  on,  "He  is  willing 
to  pay  you  for  your  time." 

The  eyes  narrowed  decidedly,  and  twinkled,  as  a 
child's  would,  at  the  proffer  of  money  to  spend. 
She  had  doubtless  known  poverty.  If  she  had  gone 
wrong,  it  was  for  poverty.  Whittemore  had  read 
many  romances  of  sin — and  no  statistics. 

Nadine  spoke. 

"Whatever  you  wish,  Miss  Haley,  I  will  do,  and 
do  gladly." 

An  appointment  was  made.  She  gave  Whitte 
more  a  little  warm  hand.  There  was  a  grateful 
friendliness  in  the  timid  clasp. 

"That's  all,  Nadine,"  said  Miss  Haley. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Haley.  Good-by,  sir."  Nadine 
bowed  and  skipped  away  to  her  companions.  Whit 
temore  saw  that  she  was  publishing  her  great  news. 
He  was  glad  that  she  was  proud. 

"Would  you  like  to  know  just  what  brought  her 
here?"  Miss  Haley  murmured,  teasingly. 

"I'd  like  to,  but  I— I  think  I'd  rather  wait  till  after 
the  picture  is  finished.  I  don't  want  to  throw  any 
rocks  in  the  mirror." 

Miss  Haley  smiled. 

"It's  strange  how  people  love  their  illusions.  As 
for  me,  I  always  want  to  know  the  facts." 

"Perhaps  Nadine  will  tell  me  the  facts,"  said 
Whittemore. 

"Perhaps,"  laughed  Miss  Haley. 

She  was  a  most  disconcerting  woman.     Whitte- 


"MOMMA" 

more  was  already  set  against  her.  He  held  a  brief 
for  poor  Nadine,  condemned  to  false  imprisonment 
and  false  suspicion. 

Mrs.  Roby  came  up,  and  Whittemore  dared  not 
tell  her  of  his  plan. 

He  was  afraid  of  being  laughed  at.  But  he  had  a 
new  interest  in  life.  He  had  adopted  a  child. 


ii 

In  the  motor,  and  at  the  Roby  house  round  the 
tea  tables,  there  was  much  talk  of  Miss  Haley  and 
her  strange  community.  It  had  been  astounding  to 
see  hundreds  of  branded  women  gathered  in  one 
flock. 

There  was  some  rather  frank  talk  of  the  girls. 
Mrs.  Roby  and  her  guests  suffered  no  false  modesties 
to  restrain  their  speech. 

Mr.  Gammell,  the  banker,  made  the  typically 
American  comment : 

"Undoubtedly  the  vast  majority  of  them  are  for 
eigners.  That's  why  I'm  against  this  unrestricted 
immigration." 

"Yes;  it's  very  dangerous — for  the  foreigners," 
said  Mr.  Roby,  who  was  a  patriot,  but  not  a  fanatic. 
"Miss  Haley  was  giving  us  some  statistics.  They 
show  that —  Where  is  that  book?  Here  it  is. 

"Out  of  a  total  of  two  hundred  and  twenty-six, 
fifty  are  foreign  born  and  a  hundred  and  seventy- 
six  American,  counting  forty-four  colored  Magda- 
lens.  So  we'll  have  to  admit  that  America  is  still 
supreme  in  all  things. 

"Here's  some  other  odd  facts  about  parents: 
'Both  parents  born  in  America,  forty;  both  parents 

132 


INNOCENCE 

English,  none;  both  parents  French,  one;  German, 
seventeen;  Irish,  eighteen;  Italian,  eight;  Russian, 
twenty-four.' 

'"Previous  occupation:  chambermaid,  one;  dress 
maker,  nine;  in  a  factory,  sixty-six;  general  house 
work,  seventy-eight ;  laundry,  eight ;  manicure,  two ; 
nurse  girl,  two;  saleswoman,  four;  stenographer, 
two;  theatrical,  two;  waitress,  twelve;  worker  on 
ostrich  feathers,  four.' 

"That's  about  the  most  dramatic  table  of  statistics 
I  ever  read,"  said  Mr.  Roby.  "Rather  disturbing 
light  on  the  influence  of  home  environment.  Gen 
eral  housework  seems  to  be  the  most  effective  means 
of  driving  women  to  the  streets." 

"Well,  I  don't  wonder,"  said  his  wife.  "But 
you'll  spoil  our  dinner.  The  bell  for  going  up  to 
dress  has  rung." 

The  women  scurried  off  at  this,  but  the  men 
lingered.  They  were  disinclined  to  flippancy  and 
also  a  trifle  awed  by  the  subject. 

"What  in  God's  world  could  lead  a  woman  to 
such  a  life?"  Whittemore  groaned. 

Roby  answered,  promptly : 

"I've  got  the  dope  on  that,  too,  and  it's  pretty 
important." 

He  spread  out  the  cold-blooded  census  on  the  big 
living-room  table. 

The  men  read  with  eager  curiosity,  pausing  to 
comment  on  many  of  the  items  in  the  inventory  of 
the  reasons  that  led  the  women  they  had  seen  to 
the  lives  the  law  had  wrenched  them  from. 

A — IN  CONNECTION   WITH  HER   FAMILY 

1  Immorality  of  the  parents 15 

2  Incompatibility 39 

133 


"MOMMA" 

3  Neglect  and  abuse 26 

4  No  mother  or  father,  or  neither 166 

5  Overindulgence 10 

6  Overstrictness 35 

7  Poverty 9 

8  Turned  out 6 

B — IN   CONNECTION   WITH   MARRIED   LIFE 

1  Death  of  husband 5 

2  Desertion  by  husband 8 

3  Immorality  (includes  cruelty  or  criminality) 14 

4  Incompatibility 26 

5  Husband  put  wife  on  street 2 

C — PERSONAL  REASONS 

1  Bad  company 75 

2  No  sex  instruction 10 

3  Idle  or  lonely 5 

4  Sick;  needed  the  money 4 

5  Ruined  anyway 10 

6  Lover  put  girl  on  street 10 

7  Previous  use  of  drink  or  drugs 7 

8  Tired  of  drudgery 4 

9  White  slaves 2 

10  "Easy  money" 17 

11  Dances 13 

12  Lazy;  hated  work 20 

13  Stage  environment 9 

14  Love  of  the  life 15 

15  Desertion  by  lover :  3 

16  Desire  for  pleasure  (theater,  food,  clothes) 48 

17  Desire  for  money 38 

18  Ashamed  to  go  home  after  first  escapade i 

D — ECONOMIC  REASONS 

1  Can't  support  herself 5 

2  Can't  support  herself  and  children i 

3  Couldn't  find  work 13 

Total 671 

134 


INNOCENCE 

* 

Roby  alone  was  not  dazed  by  this  catalog  of 
motives.  He  was  familiar  with  it.  He  preached 
on  it. 

"You'll  notice  that,  out  of  these  six  hundred  and 
seventy-one  girls,  only  fifteen  say  they  followed  the 
'life'  because  they  liked  it.  Only  one  in  forty  ad 
mits  it.  There  must  be  a  lot  of  hypocrites  among 
them.  Do  you  know,  I've  heard — you've  all  heard 
— every  reason  on  earth  given  for  sin  except  the 
real  one.  There's  one  reason  that  gets  everybody 
— and  everybody  knows  it — and  yet  in  all  the  stories 
and  articles  and  sermons  and  discussions  I've  never 
seen  it  even  mentioned,  to  say  nothing  of  seeing  it 
used  as  a  basis  of  argument." 

"What  is  the  mysterious  secret?" 

"What  those  fifteen  girls  confessed.  They  lived 
it  because  they  liked  it.  That's  why  all  people  sin. 
It's  so  damned  delightful.  But  did  you  ever  see  it 
frankly  stated  as  a  basis  for  any  study  of  a  remedy  ? " 

It  struck  them  all  as  one  of  those  amazing  novel 
ties  that  familiar,  unspoken  things  look  to  be,  when 
coldly  stated. 

"Funny,  isn't  it,"  said  Roby,  "how  afraid  we  all 
are  of  the  truth,  the  true  truth,  the  only  thing  that 
can  make  us  free,  and  the  only  thing  we  can't  get 
free  from?  We're  all  alike — " 

The  butler  approached  him  and  murmured : 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  Mrs.  Roby  says  you'd  bet 
ter  be  getting  dressed,  sir." 

Roby  sighed  with  a  mock  subordination  that  was 
not  altogether  parody,  and  went  to  his  room.  The 
other  men  hastened  to  theirs.  Whittemore  hung 
back  a  moment,  then  took  the  book  with  him  up 
stairs. 


"MOMMA" 

He  read  it  as  he  dressed,  and  found  it  more  thrill 
ing  than  any  other  mystery  story.  He  wondered 
what  excuse  Nadine  would  have  given  if  she  had 
been  really  guilty. 

in 

The  following  week  Whittemore  went  up  to  North- 
forth  by  train  and  called  on  Miss  Haley.  He  car 
ried  with  him  his  brushes,  palette,  and  tubes,  and 
a  canvas  as  unsullied  as  Nadine's  cheek. 

Miss  Haley  sent  for  the  girl.  Nadine  had  been 
working  in  the  field,  and  she  came  in  looking,  perhaps, 
more  than  ever  childish  in  her  overalls  and  her  floppy 
straw  hat.  Miss  Haley  sent  her  to  put  on  her  May 
pole  dress. 

She  came  back  with  her  white  dress  on,  her  white 
stockings  and  shoes.  Her  hair  was  down,  and  in  it 
a  pink  ribbon  was  knotted. 

She  was  self-conscious,  stiff,  and  scared.  Making 
her  strike  and  hold  the  pose  she  had  taken  so  natu 
rally  in  the  dance  was  as  hard  as  making  a  dog  sit 
up.  She  became  awkward  for  the  first  time  in  mind 
and  body.  This  only  confirmed  Whittemore's  opin 
ion  of  her  innocence. 

Miss  Haley  left  him  alone  with  her  when  he  had 
finally  arranged  her  with  her  right  hand  high,  her 
left  hand  swung  off  in  balance,  and  her  body  turned 
in  a  posture  of  arrested  motion.  As  he  sketched  in 
the  selected  attitude  he  said : 

"Tell  me  all  about  yourself,  Nadine." 

[If  young  girls  could  tell  and  would  tell  all  about 
themselves  and  what  is  truly  in  their  hearts,  at  this 
bewildering  season,  when  spring  adolesces  into  sum 
mer,  what  documents  we  should  have!  There  is  no 

136 


INNOCENCE 

more  important  period  of  human  life,  and  none  in 
which  the  records  are  more  sparse.  Women  will  not 
write,  and  men  dare  not.  A  few  horrifying  medical 
or  pathological  treatises  by  erotomaniacal  old  phy 
sicians  are  nearly  all  we  have.  The  fictionist  who 
ventured  to  portray  the  soul  as  it  is  in  that  novitiate 
would  probably  be  lynched  by  acclamation.  The 
most  dramatic  and  terrible  of  all  fields  is  fenced  off 
from  exploitation,  though  everybody  knows  more  or 
less  what  grows  there,  while  ferociously  denying  the 
truth.  These  things  must  not  be  printed  lest  the 
young  girls  should  find  out  what  they  know  already ! 

[The  editor  of  one  family  paper  gave  a  scared 
glance  or  two  on  one  occasion  in  an  effort  to  per 
suade  mothers  to  tell  their  daughters  what  they 
must  else  find  out  in  the  worst  of  ways.  One  mother 
wrote  him  she  had  tried  again  and  again  to  muster 
up  the  courage  to  break  the  hateful  news  to  her 
little  girl,  but  every  time  she  did,  one  glance  into  the 
great,  pure  eyes  of  the  child  made  the  truth  too 
horrible  to  deliver. 

[The  editor  added  a  note.  By  an  odd  coincidence 
two  women  who  conducted  a  school  for  little  girls 
had  written  him  that  this  very  little  girl  was  so 
vicious  in  her  precocious  depravities  and  had  spread 
such  corruption  among  the  other  pupils  that  they 
had  about  decided  to  disband  the  school  in  despair.] 

Whittemore  felt  like  that  innocent  mother  when 
Nadine  swept  her  large  eyes  his  way.  He  regretted 
his  question  as  soon  as  he  had  uttered  it.  He  had 
broached  a  forbidden  theme.  But  Nadine  only 
smiled  sadly,  and  said : 

"I  don't  like  to  talk  about  myself,  sir.  I  have  led 
a  very  stupid  life.  My  darling  mother  died,  and  my 
10  '37 


"MOMMA" 

father  married  again.  She  was  a  very  bad  woman 
and  terribly  jealous  of  me.  She  drove  me  out  into 
the  street  and  then  accused  me  of — oh,  such  terrible 
things!  She  wanted  to  get  me  out  of  reach  of  my 
'poor  father,  so  she  went  to  a  judge  and  told  him — 
oh,  such  stories !  And  he  sent  me  here.  I  begged  not 
to  be  sent,  but  what  could  I  do?  I  had  no  friends." 

A  tear,  as  big  a  tear  as  only  such  big  eyes  could 
utter,  was  expressed  on  her  long  lashes;  it  welled 
across  them  and  down  her  cheek. 

Whittemore's  heart  ached,  and  he  cried  out  before 
he  could  check  himself : 

' '  I  knew  it !     Poor  little  thing ! ' ' 

The  pitiful  gratitude  of  her  look  was  reward 
enough,  but  he  determined  to  secure  her  release  as 
soon  as  he  could  learn  the  facts  and  swing  the  neces 
sary  influence. 

He  decided  to  complete  the  work  while  the  affia* 
tion  was  in  him,  and  he  took  a  room  at  the  village 
hotel,  carefully  avoiding  the  station,  lest  the  Robys 
catch  him  at  his  task. 

The  next  morning  he  began  betimes.  Nadine 
knew  him  well  enough  now  to  ask  him  questions. 
She  wanted  to  know  all  about  him  and  his  life  in 
Paris,  and  just  where  and  how  he  lived  in  New  York. 
He  told  her  what  he  thought  her  old  enough  to 
know,  giving  himself,  if  not  her,  the  impression  that 
'much  of  his  life  was  not  to  be  vouchsafed  to  ears  as 
young  as  hers. 

One  day  Miss  Haley  invited  him  to  have  lunch 
at  her  table,  and  he  told  her  how  candid  and  clear  he 
found  Nadine's  heart. 

Miss  Haley  smiled  at  him,  but  without  her  earlier 
condescension. 

138 


INNOCENCE 

"You  said  Nadine  was  innocent,  and  I  rather 
made  fun  of  your  own  innocence.  I  was  wrong. 
Nadine  is  innocent." 

"Aha!"  said  Whittemore,  triumphant,  less  for  his 
own  sake  than  for  the  girl's. 

"But,"  Miss  Haley  amended,  "I  doubt  if  we  have 
the  same  idea  of  innocence.  You  don't  want  me  to 
tell  you  her  story,  because  it  might  spoil  your 
picture." 

"I  shouldn't  mind  now,  because  Nadine  told  me 
her  story  herself." 

Miss  Haley  smiled  indulgently. 

"Very  well;  let  it  go  at  that — till  your  painting  is 
done.  But  I  want  to  explain  what  I  really  feel. 

"Living  here  all  the  time,  seeing  so  many  people 
sent  here  and  kept  here  till  they  are  paroled  and 
then  brought  back  for  breaking  their  pledges,  or 
being  released  as  apparently  reformed,  I  get  cynical 
sometimes.  At  other  times  I  am  very  fond  of  all 
my  children.  I  love  them  and  forgive  them  as  one 
forgives  a  naughty  infant  that  has  broken  something 
without  meaning  to. 

"These  girls  here  are  most  of  them  undeveloped 
children.  Their  bodies  have  grown  up,  but  their 
minds  have  stopped  short.  They  are  old  infants. 

"Now,  children  are  very  different  things  from 
what  Wordsworth  says  of  them  in  his  'Ode  on  the 
Intimations  of  Immortality.'  They  do  not  come 
into  the  world  fresh  from  heaven,  as  a  rule,  but 
rather  from  the  other  place.  They  are  natural-born 
devils,  and  they  have  to  be  broken  of  nearly  all  their 
natural  inclinations. 

"Children  are  just  like  pups  or  kittens.  They 
have  no  morals.  They  lie  and  steal  and  misbehave 


"MOMMA" 

generally,  because  they  don't  know  the  rules  of  life. 
Parents  have  to  teach  them  not  to  kill  and  torture 
and  deceive.  They  don't  know  what  modesty  is. 
They  would  be  worse  than  they  are  if  they  knew  how. 
Slowly  and  wearily  their  parents  teach  them,  by 
punishments  or  scoldings  or  rewards,  that  they  must 
not  do  this,  that,  and  the  other  thing. 

"Some  learn  quickly  and  believe  all  they  are  told. 
Some  only  pretend  to  believe,  so  as  not  to  worry  their 
beloved  parents  or  so  as  to  be  let  alone.  They  are 
little  skeptics  of  the  whole  human  book  of  morals. 

"They're  not  exactly  hypocrites — unless  you'd  say 
that  a  chameleon  is  a  hypocrite  for  suiting  his  color 
to  his  situation.  We  talk  a  lot  about  good  and  evil, 
but  I  sometimes  wonder  if  they  are  any  more  than 
colors  that  match  or  jar  with  the  general  color  scheme 
in  fashion.  You  know  the  story  of  the  chameleon 
that  wandered  on  to  the  Scotch  plaid  and  'just 
naturally  burst  himself.'  Well,  some  of  these  poor 
girls  are  here  because  they  have  found  the  pattern 
of  life  entirely  too  complicated  to  conform  to.  And 
they  went  broke  morally. 

"Anything  that  interests  them  is  theirs  if  nobody 
is  watching.  Anything  they  feel  a  mood  to  do  is 
the  right  thing  to  do  if  it  is  safe.  Their  moods  drive 
them.  They  will  try  everything  once,  as  the  saying 
is.  They  simply  make  a  choice  of  temptations.  De 
ceiving  troublesome  guardians  is  all  part  of  the  gift 
of  nature.  It  comes  as  easy  to  them  as  playing  dead 
does  to  a  'possum. 

"That  is  why  some  of  them  keep  innocent  eyes 
and  their  shy,  pretty  ways.  They  are  really  inno 
cent — but  innocent  of  morality  and  honesty  and 
decency.  They  are  not  troubled  by  remorse  or 

140 


INNOCENCE 

vicarious  suffering  or  any  of  the  anxieties  that  make 
wrinkles  and  narrow  eyes. 

"When  I  see  one  of  those  peculiarly  guileless- 
looking  girls  come  before  me,  I  always  say:  'Here  is 
one  who  is  as  bad  as  they  make  'em.  I've  got  noth 
ing  to  appeal  to  except  her  whims  and  appetites.' 

"Of  all  the  girls  I've  had,  your  May-pole  girl  is 
the  hardest  to  reach.  She's  everybody's  pet,  but  I 
wouldn't  trust  one  of  her  sort,  or  believe  one  of 
them.  Nor  would  I  seriously  blame  one  of  them  for 
anything  she  did.  And  now  you  know  my  idea  of 
innocence." 

Whittemore  hurried  out  to  his  post.  Nadine 
joined  him  there.  The  clouds  kept  aloof,  prowling 
round  the  edges  of  the  sky,  as  if  Whittemore's  hostile 
glances  frightened  them  off. 

He  was  in  the  vein;  his  brushes  flew,  and  he 
painted  on  and  on,  far  past  his  train  hour,  finishing 
the  picture  in  a  grand  burst  of  enthusiasm  just  in 
time  to  catch  a  late-afternoon  local  to  town. 

When  he  bade  Nadine  good-by  he  held  her  hand 
a  long,  earnest  while  till  she  let  it  go  herself  to  study 
her  portrait.  She  stared  into  the  canvas  with  the 
wonderment  of  a  dryad  musing  upon  a  brook  mirror ; 
and  her  delight  in  the  manifest  beauty  was  fasci 
nating. 

Whittemore  told  her  that  he  would  see  her  again 
and  take  up  her  case  at  once.  He  guaranteed  her  a 
speedy  release,  thanked  her  with  extravagant  grati 
tude,  and  fled. 

IV 

The  next  day  a  pile  of  neglected  correspondence,  a ' 
nagging  telephone,  and  a  succession  of  callers  kept. 

141 


"MOMMA" 

him  occupied.  He  showed  the  Nadine  picture  to 
his  visitors,  and  their  praises  were  almost  unani 
mous,  although  a  cantankerous  critic  or  two  com 
plained  that  the  picture  was  sickish  sweet  and 
stickily  sentimental. 

Whittemore  defended  rather  Nadine  than  her 
image,  and  ridiculed  the  critical  fallacy  that  it  is 
more  artistic  to  paint  homely  old  men  or  morbid 
forests  or  fantastic  distortions  of  nature  than  to 
picture  exquisite  girl-beauty  crescent  toward  full- 
moonhood. 

The  next  day  was  full  of  appointments  with  sitters, 
among  them  the  know-it-all  Miss  Roby,  with  her 
sporty  talk,  and  a  priggish  old  lady  or  two  full  of 
charitable  schemes. 

He  found  a  dinner  date  on  his  calendar  and  dared 
not  break  it.  But  he  escaped  early  and  returned  to 
his  studio.  He  wanted  to  study  his  painting  of 
Nadine.  He  propped  the  canvas  on  an  easel  and 
sat  off,  considering  his  work  and  rinding  it  good. 
The  more  he  admired  it,  the  more  he  admired  Na 
dine.  He  felt  proud  to  be  privileged  not  only  to 
immortalize  her  innocence,  but,  later,  to  vindicate  it. 

He  decided  to  begin  his  crusade  for  her  restoration 
to  liberty  early  in  the  morning.  As  he  yawned  with 
satisfaction  over  his  art  and  his  philanthropy — or, 
perhaps,his  philogyny — there  was  a  knock  at  his  door. 

He  had  a  door  bell,  and  the  neglect  to  ring  it  gave 
him  an  instant  impression  that  his  caller  was  not 
sophisticated.  The  knock  was  repeated,  and  it  sug 
gested  the  soft  knuckles  of  a  plump-handed,  fright 
ened  child.  He  called,  "Come  in!"  and  the  door 
opened  slowly,  as  if  anxiously,  reluctantly,  with 
deprecation. 

142 


INNOCENCE 

In  slipped  Nadine  and  closed  the  door  back  of  her 
timidly.  The  click  of  the  lock  startled  her.  Whitte- 
more  was  startled,  too.  He  gasped: 

"How  did  you  get  here?" 

"Miss  Haley  said  I  might  come,  sir." 

"But  surely  not  at  this  hour." 

"My  train  was  late,  please." 

"But  why  did  you  come  to  me?" 

"Because  you  were  so  kind,  and  I — I  need  a 
friend.  I  have  no  home." 

Young  as  she  was,-  she  was  old  enough  to  be  en 
dangered  and  to  endanger.  Whittemore,  unutter 
ably  uncomfortable,  said: 

"But  you  can't  stay  here  with  me." 

"Why  not?" 

He  could  not  decide  whether  this  were  pure  igno 
rance  or  pure  impudence.  He  assumed  the  former. 

"Aren't  you  old  enough  to  know  that  you  must 
not?" 

She  giggled  like  a  mischievous  child  or  a  shrewd 
witch.  Whittemore  was  sane  enough  to  see  trouble 
afar  and  run  from  it  without  delay.  He  grew  stern. 

"Out  you  go!" 

She  tried  persuasion,  wheedling,  wild  prayer.  She 
kissed  his  hand  and  stroked  his  cheek  imploringly. 
He  ran,  like  a  Joseph,  to  an  anachronistic  telephone. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  cried. 

"Telephone  for  a  car  and  take  you  back  to  where 
you  ran  away  from." 

"I  won't  go  with  you." 

"Then  I'll  keep  you  here  till  they  come  for  you." 

He  pounded  the  telephone  hook,  impatiently  call 
ing,  ' '  Hello !  Hello ! "  to  a  telephone  boy  who  was  also 
elevator  boy  at  this  hour. 


"MOMMA" 

There  was  a  rush,  the  slam  of  a  door.  Nadine  was 
gone.  Whittemore  was  about  to  drop  the  telephone 
and  pursue  her,  when  he  heard  a  voice  at  his  ear. 

"Hello!"  he  shouted.    "Is  this  the  hall  man?" 

"Yassa." 

"This  is  Mr.  Whittemore.  A  young  girl  has  just 
been  here." 

"Yassa.     I  brang  her  up." 

"Well,  she's  run  away,  and  I  want  you  to  keep 
her  from  getting  out.  Close  the  door  and  keep  her 
in  at  all  costs.  I'm  coming  ri^ht  down." 

"Yassa." 

Whittemore  left  the  telephone  and  ran  from  his 
studio.  He  ran  down  the  winding  stairs,  eight 
flights,  growing  more  angry  and  alarmed  at  every 
jog.  When  he  reached  the  main  floor  he  found  the 
hall  boy  with  his  back  against  the  outer  door. 

"She  'ain't  come  yet,"  he  said. 

Whittemore  was  disgusted  with  the  situation; 
but  he  had  hopelessly  compromised  himself  and  he 
was  determined  to  go  through  with  it. 

He  called  the  superintendent  up  from  the  base 
ment. 

They  made  a  slow  and  tiresome  search  of  the  roof 
and  the  unfurnished  or  uninhabited  flats.  Strange 
objects  jumped  at  them  as  they  flashed  the  light  in 
the  gloom,  but  there  was  no  Nadine. 

Whittemore  next  insisted  on  calling  up  the  occu 
pied  apartments,  one  by  one.  He  disturbed  several 
bridge  games  and  some  slumbers.  His  question  was 
answered  in  the  negative,  with  unanimous  coldness 
or  anger. 

Baffled  at  every  turn,  Whittemore  bribed  the  hall 
man  and  the  superintendent  to  keep  a  close  watch 

144 


INNOCENCE 

for  the  night,  and  went  back  to  his  studio.  Then 
he  called  up  Miss  Haley  and  told  her  of  Nadine's 
incursion.  Miss  Haley  said: 

"We  missed  her.  We  have  searching  parties  in 
the  roads  and  woods  about  here  now.  She  didn't 
go  by  train.  She  probably  met  some  automobile 
and  told  the  driver  a  good  lie.  She  lies  beautifully. 
She  has  such  an  innocent —  But  you  know  that 
already.  I'll  notify  the  police — " 

On  the  second  night,  at  about  two  o'clock,  the 
hall  man  woke  from  what  he  called  a  light  nap  with 
an  impression  that  some  one  had  tiptoed  past  him. 
He  felt  a  draught. 

The  door  was  open.  He  looked  up  and  down  the 
street,  but  saw  no  one.  He  assumed  that  the  door 
had  opened  of  itself  and  went  back  to  his  medita 
tions  on  whatever  he  meditated  on. 

The  next  morning  a  great  hullabaloo  was  raised 
by  Mr.  Belshaw,  an  elderly  artist  who  designed 
stained-glass  memorial  windows.  He  notified  the 
superintendent  and  also  the  police  that  a  model 
posing  for  one  of  his  saints  had  stolen  away  with  a 
pocketbook  full  of  money  and  some  antique  carved 
beads  of  great  value. 

A  detective  named  Yore  arrived  with  unexpected 
promptness,  due,  no  doubt,  to  the  violence  of  Mr. 
Belshaw's  wrath. 

He  gave  Mr.  Belshaw  a  very  nasty  look  and  in 
vited  him  to  spill  out  all  the  facts.  Belshaw  nearly 
blushed  as  he  explained : 

"The  other  evening  I  was  sitting  here  working  on 
a  cartoon  for  a  church  window,  and  the  door  was  on 
the  catch,  as  I  expected  a  friend  to  call.  And — well 
— all  of  a  sudden — in  bolts  this  girl  and  begs  me  to 


"MOMMA" 

save  her.     She  had  run  away  from  home  because 
they  beat  her,  and — well — " 

"And  you  fell  for  that?"  the  detective  sneered. 

"Anybody  would  fall  for  eyes  like  hers.  Look 
at  'em.  I've  put  'em  in  a  cartoon.  She  posed  for 
this  martyr.  Wouldn't  you  trust  a  face  like  that?" 

"Nagh!  I  don't  trust  anybody.  And  if  we  don't 
nab  that  girl,  I  wouldn't  make  much  of  a  holler  if  I 
was  you.  Your  story  won't  look  none  too  good 
in  the  court.  You  kept  her  here,  and  it  ain't  your 
fault  you  didn't  learn  her  as  much  as  you  thought 
you  did.  You  better  pocket  your  loss  and  keep  out 
of  the  papers." 

The  detective  left  Mr.  Belshaw  to  simmer  in  his 
own  broth,  and  went  to  consult  Whittemore. 

Whittemore  made  one  more  battle  for  Nadine. 
He  told,  with  some  difficulty  in  the  face  of  Yore's 
sarcastic  grin,  the  story  of  Nadine's  false  incarcera 
tion  as  a  result  of  her  stepmother's  cruelty.  Yore 
laughed. 

"Stepmother — hell!    She  never  had  one." 

"How  do  you  know  that?" 

"Why,  I've  known  that  kid  since  she  was  born. 
I  knew  her  on  the  sidewalks  of  the  East  Side.  Usedn't 
I  to  see  her  trundlin'  her  little  brother  in  a  baby  car 
riage?  Wasn't  I  raised  in  the  same  block?  Maggie 
was  a  hell-kitten  from  the  start." 

' * ' Maggie '  ?    I'm  speaking  of  Nadine. ' ' 

"Nadine  nothin'!  She  got  that  out  of  a  theayter 
program.  'Mag'  was  what  they  christened  her,  and 
her  old  man  and  woman  as  nice,  honest  people  as 
you'd  want  to  know.  They  done  everything  for 
that  girl,  from  prayin'  over  her  to  bustin'  bedslats 
over  her.  The  priest,  the  settlement  workers,  the 

146 


INNOCENCE 

teachers,  the  Sallavation  Army — everybody  took  a 
whack  at  savin'  Maggie's  soul.  But  nothin'  doin'. 
Or,  I  should  say,  everything  doin'.  I  'ain't  got  the 
nerve  to  tell  you  some  of  her  stunts. 

"Her  poor  ma  and  pa  put  her  out  to  work  to  keep 
her  off  the  streets.  She  got  fired  regular.  Nobody 
wanted  to  prosecute  her  because  they  couldn't  face 
them  goo-goo  eyes.  They  tried  her  in  a  home — a 
good  woman  gave  her  a  chance  as  a  maid,  and  what 
did  she  do  but  put  roach  powder  in  the  milk  because 
she  was  jealous  of  the  dairyman  and  the  cook. 

"I  was  on  the  force  by  that  time,  and  I  was  called 
in  on  the  case.  Same  old  story.  Mag — or  Nadine, 
as  you  call  her — spilled  a  few  tears  and  it  was  all  off. 
The  cook  cried,  and  the  nice  old  lady  cried,  and 
wouldn't  appear  against  her. 

"She  wouldn't  go  to  school  except  off  and  on 
when  she  admired  the  teacher.  Once,  when  the 
truant  officer  got  after  her,  she  said  she  had  started 
to  school,  but  had  been  grabbed  and  bound  to  a 
stake  by  a  gang  of  men  after  a  terrible  fight  for  her 
honor.  It  was  a  swell  story,  but  we  couldn't  find 
the  stake  where  she  said  it  was.  She  named  the 
men,  though,  and  tried  to  get  'em  sent  to  the  electric 
chair — just  for  fun.  She's  got  a  great  little  sense  of 
humor. 

' '  I  'ain't  got  time  to  tell  you  all  the  things  that  little 
lady's  been  up  to.  She  made  the  Foundlin'  Asylum 
a  nice  little  present  as  soon  as  she  could.  Later  she 
gets  one  young  feller  so  crazy  about  her  that,  when 
she  has  a  hunch  to  go  to  a  movie  and  he  can't  borry 
the  price  off  anybody,  he  goes  into  a  saloon  to  hold 
up  a  barkeep.  The  barkeep  went  for  him  with  a 
bung  starter,  and  the  poor  fish  shoots  him — croaks 


"MOMMA" 

the  barkeep,  too.  It  was  me  was  goin'  by  and  heard 
the  shot.  I  stepped  in  just  as  the  lad  steps  over  the 
barkeep's  body  and  taps  the  'No  Sale'  bar  on  the 
cash  register.  I  says: 

"'Well,  well,  son,  what's  up?'  And  he  up  and 
tries  to  plug  me.  The  slug  rips  a  swell  painting,  and 
I  had  to  beat  him  insenseless  before  I  could  take  his 
gun  off  him.  He's  been  sentenced  to  the  chair 
a'ready,  but  he's  got  his  case  up  on  appeal. 

"We  tried  to  link  up  little  Nadine  with  this  job, 
but  the  young  feller  swore  she  wasn't  in  on  his  raid, 
and  she  denied  she'd  ever  sor  him. 

"She  didn't  waste  no  time  pinin'  for  him  after  he 
went  up  the  river,  either,  but  she  joined  up  with  a 
gang  of  phony  check  passers.  And  then  we  got  her 
cold. 

"But  she  on'y  hadda  flash  them  lamps  of  hers  on 
His  Honor  once,  and  he  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  I 
wanted  her  put  away  so's  to  give  her  poor  ma  a 
vacation,  but  the  best  the  judge  would  hand  her  was 
the  reformatory,  where  she  could  be  removed  from 
evil  surroundin's  and  have  lovin'  care. 

"She  ain't  in  the  reformatory  a  week  before  she's 
writin'  letters  to  the  papers  tellin'  how  cruel  she's 
treated,  chained  up,  and  starved  and  whipped.  They 
started  an  investigation  and  the  managers  of  the 
inst'tootion  was  treated  like  they  was  worse  'n  the 
inmates,  but  it  blew  over,  and  Maggie  she  settled 
down  for  a  while. 

"I  was  just  wonderin'  if  she  wasn't  about  due  for 
another  little  raid  on  New  York.  Old  Belshaw's 
lucky  she  was  satisfied  to  skip  with  his  roll.  I'd 
have  looked  for  her  to  blackmail  him. 

"That's  her  picture,  ain't  it?  It  don't  look  so 
148 


INNOCENCE 

much  unlike  her  at  that.  She's  a  pirty  thing,  ain't 
she?  I'll  say  she  is.  And  you  can't  help  likin'  her. 
She's  got  a  bone  out  of  joint  in  her  head,  maybe,  or 
somethin'  like  that,  prob'ly.  Good  day." 

When  the  garrulous  familiar  of  criminals  at  work 
had  gone,  Whittemore  took  the  picture  of  Nadine 
from  the  easel  pins  and  turned  it  to  the  wall.  He  was 
very  bitter  against  her  for  adding  him  to  the  throng 
she  had  been  fooling  so  perfectly. 

One  day  he  bought  some  old  things  at  an  auction. 
Among  them  an  exquisite  little  spinet.  It  was  so" 
nearly  playable  that  he  called  in  a  piano  tuner. 

But  after  a  little  trial  the  tuner  resigned. 

"The  wrest  pins  won't  hold  up  under  the  strain. 
They  keep  slipping.  You'll  have  to  give  it  up  as 
far  as  music  is  concerned.  You'll  just  have  to  get 
your  money's  worth  out  of  the  looks  of  it.  Pretty 
thing,  isn't  it?" 

Whittemore  wondered  if  Nadine  were  not  a  kind 
of  musical  instrument  whose  wrest  pins  could  not 
stand  the  tug  of  the  strings.  She  was  full  of  jingle, 
too,  but  hopelessly  out  of  harmony. 

Nobody  blamed  a  piano  for  not  staying  in  tune, 
or  expected  it  to  lift  its  own  strings  to  the  true  pitch 
when  professional  tuners  gave  them  up.  Why  should 
one  blame  a  soul  for  being  badly  assembled  and  al 
ways  off  the  key  in  spite  of  the  fair  case  and  the 
tampting  white  keys? 

So  the  spinet  stood  silent,  but  Whittemore  would 
often  take  Nadine's  picture  from  its  exile  and  stud"y 
it.  It  tormented  him  with  its  baffling  beauty  and 
the  history  of  its  original.  He  remembered  that  old 
painters  used  their  mistresses  as  models  for  their 
Madonnas.  But  they  had  known  what  they  were 

149 


"MOMMA" 

about.  His  own  Fornarina  had  obtained  his  rever 
ence  under  false  pretenses.  He  would  not  offer  the 
picture  for  sale. 

But,  one  day,  a  dealer  called  to  see  his  wares  and, 
looking  about  among  the  disjected  canvases,  came 
upon  the  May-pole  girl. 

"What's  this?  "he  said. 

"Oh,  just  a  study." 

"I  didn't  know  you  went  in  for  these  ideal  things." 

4 ' '  Ideal ' ! "     Whittemore  groaned. 

"I'll  take  it,"  said  the  dealer. 

Whittemore  felt  that  this  was  the  best  way  of 
ridding  himself  of  the  haunt.  When  a  price  had  been 
agreed  upon  the  dealer  stared  at  his  property  and 
sighed. 

"That  may  be  too  pretty  to  be  art,  but  it  gets  me 
somehow.  I  suppose  it's  because  I  lost  a  daughter 
who  looked  like  this — same  pure,  innocent  expres 
sion.  Only  consolation  is  she  died  before  she  knew 
what  wrong  was." 

Whittemore  had  a  horrible  suspicion,  but  he  kept 
it  to  himself.  The  dealer  took  the  picture  with  him, 
and,  being  a  dealer,  dealt  in  it.  He  sold  it  to  a  lith 
ographer,  who  made  a  print  of  it  and  labeled  it 
"Innocence."  It  sold  even  more  enormously  than 
"September  Morn,"  because  it  appealed  to  a  far 
wider  market,  to  the  great  public  that  fears  the  nude 
and  trusts  the  sentimental. 

On  a  hundred  thousand  walls  the  effigy  of  Nadine 
found  a  shrine.  She  smiled  and  gazed  down  upon 
millions  of  people,  who  gazed  up  at  her  and  felt 
better  for  her  sake,  trusted  her  eyes,  and  trusted  life 
a  little  more  because  of  her. 

Mothers  pointed  to  her  as  to  an  ikon  and  used  her 
150 


INNOCENCE 

as  a  text  for  their  daughters  to  model  their  souls 
upon. 

Many  saintly  women  of  the  most  useful  lives  have 
been  encumbered,  and  have  cumbered  the  day,  with 
faces  of  the  least  inspiring  sort.  Some  of  the  best 
of  them  have  suggested  horses  rather  than  humans. 
Their  hard  mouths  and  hard  cheeks,  cavernous  eyes 
and  scrawly  hair,  haVe  kept  them  from  the  walls  of 
homes.  But  Nadine  became  a  household  saint. 

Whittemore  had  a  vast  amount  of  unwelcome  ad 
vertisement  for  his  picture.  The  critics  ridiculed 
him  for  its  popularity,  and  the  people  revered  him 
for  a  success  he  had  not  intended. 

The  true  influence  of  the  painted  Npdine  upon  the 
American  home  would  be  hard  to  estimate.  Perhaps 
it  served  as  a  vicarious  atonement  for  some  of  the 
misdeeds  the  perverse  little  genius  continued  to  add 
to  her  amazing  record. 

At  the  latest  reports  she  was  once  more  a  student 
at  Miss  Haley's  school.  Over  Miss  Haley's  desk 
hangs  a  print  of  her  most  widely  circulated  pupil. 
Miss  Haley  often  looks  at  it.  Sometimes  she  laughs 
bitterly,  and  sometimes  she  sighs  tenderly  as  her 
lips  mutely  frame  the  mystic  word,  "Innocence!" 


VI 

THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 


ACCORDING  to  the  red  calendar  of  the  maple 
**•  trees  it  was  autumn.  By  the  college  almanac 
it  was  spring.  Like  the  soonest  bluebirds  and  the 
first  sown  seed,  the  earliest  students  were  arriving 
on  the  campus,  fluttering  down  almost  as  thick  and 
fast  as  the  reluctant  leaves. 

The  seasons  were  equally  reversed  in  the  heart  of 
the  woman  whose  window — whose  almost  famous 
window — overlooked  the  college  yard.  That  woman 
and  her  window  had  become  an  institution.  The  seat 
she  sat  in  was  called  the  Chair  of  Platonic  Love,  and 
she  was  dubbed  Professor  Emerita  of  Applied 
Philandery. 

The  melancholy  that  visits  the  usual  soul  when  the 
ominous  cold  winds  ransack  the  trees  came  to  her 
in  the  later  days  of  June.  She  drooped  at  Com 
mencement  time,  for  the  summer  was  the  winter  of 
her  discontent.  It  was  a  period  of  dull  torpor,  a  sort 
of  hibernation;  she  and  her  doleful  sisters  in  the 
small  town  suffered  estivation,  like  land  snails; 
merely  existed  as  nullities,  while  all  other  life  flour 
ished  to  the  full.  But  now  that  September  was 
nearly  gone  she  felt  spring  in  the  air.  And  now  she 
smiled  on  the  youngsters  trooping  along  the  walks 

152 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

— smiled  a  hungry,  preying  smile,  like  a  cat  that  purrs 
luxuriously  in  the  sun  and  basks,  assured  and  patient. 

Her  real  name  was  Bertha  Lorton  and  she  had 
never  been  able  to  change  it,  though  she  had  been 
known  by  a  sort  of  nom  de  college  as  "Lalage"  Lor 
ton  ever  since  the  time  of  Douglas  Wier,  of  the  class 
of — well,  it  was  back  in  the  ancient  days  when  Latin 
was  a  required  study. 

At  that  period  the  faculty  had  something  to  say 
about  the  curriculum,  and  even  a  man  of  Wier's 
notoriously  practical  nature — he  has  since  achieved 
wealth  as  a  manufacturer  of  coal-tar  products — was 
forced  to  study  Horace,  to  the  mutual  disgust  of 
himself  and  Horace. 

But,  in  some  manner,  Wier  had  responded  to  the 
music  of  at  least  two  of  Horace's  most  musical  lines — 
possibly  because  they  were  extraordinarily  easy  to 
translate.  To  his  troubled  mind  it  was  as  though  a 
grindstone  had  suddenly  turned  into  a  chime  of 
bells.  Without  looking  up  a  single  word  in  the  lexi 
con  or  the  pony,  or  a  single  foot  in  the  prosody,  he 
had  understood  and  delighted  in  the  well-known 
lilt  of 

Didce  ridentem  Lalagen  amabo, 
Dulce  loquentem. 

At  that  time  Wier  happened  to  believe  that  little 
Bertha  Lorton  was  the  sweet-speakingest  and  sweet- 
laughingest  thing  in  the  world;  so  he  called  her 
Lalage,  and  the  name  stuck.  It  survived  his  life  in 
college.  Much  water  had  flowed  under  Arden 
Bridge  since  Wier's  day,  and  many  a  class  had  passed 
under  the  yoke;  but  here  was  Miss  Lalage  Lorton 
again  at  her  window,  the  same  Lalage  save  for  a 


"MOMMA" 

certain  crinkle  of  the  petal,  still  sweet  of  speech 
and  alert  for  laughter  as  of  yore — but  still  Miss 
Lorton. 

This  finished  summer  had  been  almost  intolerable 
for  her.  Money  had  been  lacking  to  take  her  to 
seashore  or  mountain,  and  the  dull  town  had  been 
like  a  deserted  village.  The  college  was  the  heart  of 
life,  and  the  heart  had  stopped.  Dormitories,  labora 
tories,  recitation  buildings,  chapel,  gymnasium,  chap 
ter  houses,  all  were  closed,  and  the  boarding  houses 
were  but  the  dreary  lairs  of  tenantless  landladies. 
The  grass  grew  long  in  the  campus,  hiding  the  walks, 
and  in  the  athletic  field  and  on  the  tennis  courts; 
there  were  no  games  to  watch  and  no  celebrations  of 
games,  no  class  hops,  no  cane  rushes,  no  book  bonfires 
to  light  up  the  night,  no  choruses  to  sweeten  the 
evening. 

All  the  long,  hot,  stupid  season  Miss  Lorton  had 
nothing  to  do  but  read  novels,  read  other  people's 
love  stories,  and  compare  them  with  the  well-stocked 
library  of  her  own  memory.  They  suffered  by  com 
parison,  but  they  all  ended  with  hero  and  heroine  in 
£ach  other's  arms  and  a  parson  coming  up  like  a 
volunteer  fireman. 

Since  the  forenoon  of  her  heyday  a  new  generation 
of  girls  had  grown  up  to  contest  for  the  students. 
These  girls  called  her  an  old  maid,  and  those  of  them 
whom  chance  had  made  brides  pitied  her  for  her 
romanceless  life — her,  whose  heart  was  an  encyclo 
pedia  of  amorous  experience — a  lexicon  of  love — 
resembling  a  lexicon  in  the  frequent  change  of  sub 
ject  and  the  brevity  of  the  items — but,  after  all,  an 
almost  unabridged  dictionary. 

Miss  Lorton  might  have  made  somebody  a  very 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

good  wife,  but  this  proposition  was  never  brought  to 
a  Q.  E.  D.  She  had  always  been  about  to  marry 
and  had  never  pushed  her  ringer  through  a  ring. 
That  was  the  one  word  her  vocabulary  lacked — 
"marriage,"  and  she  longed  to  acquire  it.  Several 
women  she  knew,  who  had  never  had  a  tithe  of  her 
love  affairs,  had  nevertheless  enjoyed  two  or  even 
three  weddings,  several  motherhoods,  one  or  two 
widowhoods  or  separations  or  divorces — all  those 
postgraduate  excitements  that  she  had  been  denied. 

She  had  rested  all  summer,  had  read  articles  on 
how  to  keep  young,  to  become  supple,  to  get  attrac 
tive,  and  stay  so.  She  had  taken  curious  exercises, 
had  bought  and  applied  numerous  beauty  lotions — 
all  of  them  warranted  harmless. 

She  felt  that  she  was  looking  young.  She  wished 
to  look  young,  and  her  heart  hypnotized  her  mirror 
into  telling  her  that  she  was  young. 

And  in  another  environment  she  would  have  been 
young.  As  an  actress,  a  singer,  an  Amazon  in  the 
social  war  of  a  city,  she  would  have  been  just  enter 
ing  into  the  ripeness  of  beauty  and  its  management. 
Compared  to  Cleopatra  or  Ninon  de  Lenclos  in  their 
heydey,  she  was  a  mere  girl.  Among  men  who  had 
grown  up  with  her,  or  among  a  mixed  society  of  late- 
repenting  bachelors  or  relapsing  widowers,  she  would 
have  been  in  high  fettle  for  the  matrimonial  stakes. 

The  trouble  was  that  she  had  cast  her  lot  in  with 
a  college  crowd;  her  clients  were  all  boys.  The  in 
structors  and  professors  were  out  of  the  running,  for 
the  swarm  of  youths  acted  as  a  chaperon.  Such 
members  of  the  faculty  as  were  not  already  married 
possessed  their  souls  in  patience  till  vacations  set 
them  free  to  go  a-wooing  in  other  towns,  where  their 


"MOMMA" 

own  students  would  not  see  them  and  think  them 
ridiculous. 

Lalage  was  entirely  surrounded  by  boys.  For 
them  she  was  growing  old.  And  she  was  arriving 
toward  the  ghastly  crisis  of  confessing  it.  But  not 
yet!  She  must  have  one  more  season;  and  here  it 
was. 

So  she  watched  the  boys  saunter  by,  the  unwilling 
candidates;  they  passed  in  review  along  the  side 
walk,  not  knowing  that  they  were  under  inspection. 

Suddenly  her  heart  thrilled.  She  did  not  believe 
in  ghosts,  yet  what  else  but  a  ghost  could  that  be  ? 

Surely  that  was  Douglas  Wier,  of  the  class  of . 

No;  she  would  not  believe  her  memory.  Douglas 
Wier's  year  of  graduation  could  not  have  been  so 
far  back.  It  could  not  be  that  the  first  of  her  pass 
ing  regiment  of  lovers  had  marched  out  of  her  life 
so  long  ago !  That  would  make  her — well,  she  could 
hardly  call  herself  a  girl  and  confess  to  so  many 
years.  She  must  not  cease  being  a  girl — not  yet. 
She  had  refused  for  so  long  to  think  of  her  age,  she 
had  lied  so  often  about  it  to  other  people,  denied  the 
relentless  recurrent  testimony  of  her  inevitable  birth 
days,  that  she  convinced  herself  that  the  calendar 
was  a  liar. 

She  would  believe  rather  her  looking-glass.  She 
ran  to  it  and  glared  into  it;  questioned  it  with  anx 
ious  eyes.  Such  a  frightened  face  as  she  saw  there! 
— yet  it  was  never  the  face  of  a  woman  reaching 
thirty-six  years — thirty,  perhaps,  and  well  pre 
served;  but  not  forty — no,  no! 

Yet  that  date  resounded  in  her  head  like  a  funeral 
bell  tolled  once  for  each  year  of  the  departed  one's 
life. 

156 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

She  remembered  her  photograph  album,  the  long- 
neglected  rogues'  gallery  of  her  fickle  lovers.  She 
found  it,  with  the  dust  of  years  in  its  shabby  plush. 
And  there  she  found  Douglas  Wier  staring  at  her 
from  the  first  niche  after  the  section  devoted  to  her 
father  and  mother  and  herself  as  a  child. 

Yes,  there  he  was,  Douglas  Wier,  the  Abou  ben 
Adhem  of  her  tribe  of  lovers.  And  across  his  vi 
gnetted  lapel  he  had  written  his  name  in  that  well- 
remembered  script,  boyish  and  ragged,  but  full  of 
confidence.  And  he  had  added  the  monogram  of  his 
fraternity,  Delta  Chi  Delta,  whose  pins  she  had 
worn  in  his  name  and  in  the  name  of  several  later 
Delta  Chi  Delts.  And  he  had  scrawled  also  the  year 
of  his  class — there  it  was.  She  tried  to  tell  herself 
that  she  was  only  fifteen  when  he  graduated.  But 
that  would  have  made  her  only  eleven  when  she  loved 
him  as  a  Freshman — and  such  a  fresh  Freshman ! 

And  now  he  was  back  again  in  college.  He  had 
just  passed  along  the  walk,  under  her  window,  the 
same  window,  though  the  sill  was  new  and  the 
shutters  had  been  painted  three  times,  and  had 
needed  another  coat  for  nine  years. 

It  struck  her  as  ridiculously  impossible  that  she 
should  have  seen  him.  She  must  have  dropped 
asleep  and  dreamed  him  back.  To  make  sure,  she 
would  watch.  If  he  were  real  he  would  pass  by 
again. 

ii 

She  took  her  place  at  the  window  and  stared  down 
fearsomely  intent.  Other  young  men  passed.  Some 
of  them  she  knew  from  the  year  or  years  before. 
They  lifted  their  hats  to  her.  One  of  them  was 


"MOMMA" 

"Pug"  Leonard,  who  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  in 
his  Freshman  year;  and  fallen  in  love  with  another 
girl  in  his  Sophomore  year;  a  third  in  his  Junior; 
and  had  doubtless  come  back  to  add  at  least  one 
more  affair  before  he  graduated. 

As  he  passed,  "Pug"  Leonard  dared  to  look  up 
and  sing  out : 

"Hello,  Lalage!  Glad  to  see  you  again.  You're 
looking  younger  than  ever." 

She  hated  his  impertinence,  but  she  forgave  him 
much  for  that  "younger  than  ever."  It  was  just 
what  she  needed  to  hear. 

For  three  hours  she  watched  and  waited,  dreaming 
with  open  eyes  of  Douglas  Wier.  She  remembered 
with  a  startling  vividness  their  first  meeting.  Her 
father  and  mother  had  taken  her  to  a  reception, 
because  they  had  no  servant  to  leave  her  with  at 
home.  She  must  have  been  more  than  eleven — 
perhaps  fourteen.  Douglas  Wier  was  at  the  recep 
tion,  a  Freshman,  shy  before  girls,  shabby  in  ill- 
fitting  clothes,  but  with  alert  eyes. 

He  knew  nobody,  and  sat  alone  on  the  stairs,  eating 
his  ice  cream.  She  had  crawled  away  there  to  eat 
her  own.  Somehow  he  spoke  to  her,  and  she  an 
swered  him.  They  both  trembled  with  the  excite 
ment  of  it.  The  Queen  of  Sheba's  first  words  with 
King  Solomon  could  not  have  seemed  more  important 
to  her. 

She  did  not  see  him  again  that  year — to  speak  to. 
But  she  worshiped  him  from  afar.  Her  father,  who 
was  a  professor  of  Greek  history,  occasionally  told 
some  anecdote  of  him,  some  prank  he  had  performed 
in  the  classroom.  It  was  to  her  like  hearing  gossip 
of  a  king. 

158 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

The  next  year  they  met  again.  He  had  a  bit  of 
the  typical  Sophomoric  aggression.  She  had  devel 
oped  amazingly.  He  talked  to  her — lots.  He  asked 
if  he  might  call.  Her  mother  said  she  was  too  young ; 
so  they  met  clandestinely.  Sometimes  they  stood 
and  shivered  in  the  moonlit  snow.  They  were  pro 
foundly  in  love,  but  he  was  too  young  to  dare  to  kiss 
her — except  good-by  the  last  evening  before  the  sum 
mer  vacation. 

The  next  year  he  was  a  Junior  and  thereby  a 
gallant.  Her  mother  consented  to  his  calling,  to 
their  going  to  parties  together.  The  idea  of  chaper- 
onage  had  not  invaded  the  Arcadian  life  of  Arden. 
She  was  permitted  almost  unrestricted  privileges. 
All  the  girls  were.  Long  drives  together,  long  walks 
in  the  woods,  late  seances  on  the  porch — everybody 
practiced  them — nobody  thought  anything  of  it 
then. 

In  Douglas's  Senior  year  he  and  his  Lalage  were 
accepted  as  affianced  lovers  in  a  prematrimonial  inti 
macy.  Their  talk  was  all  about  the  married  life  they 
should  lead.  The  wedding  was  to  take  place  the 
minute  he  got  a  position — no  matter  how  small  the 
wage. 

Oh,  but  she  wept  the  night  after  his  graduation! 
— wept  even  though  she  believed  that  he  would 
return  for  her  soon — in  a  few  weeks,  perhaps ;  surely 
in  a  few  months.  If  she  had  known  or  dreamed  that 
twenty-two  years  were  to  pass  and  never  bring  him 
back! 

And  he  had  wept,  too — boy  that  he  was,  for  all 
his  Senior  dignities.  Oh,  tear-steeped  kisses  in  the 
moonlight!  Oh,  hopes  of  young  lovers,  future  for- 
getters,  traitors-elect ! 


"MOMMA" 

And  now,  just  as  she  had  almost  forgotten  him, 
just  as  the  rains  and  snows  of  long  years  had  worn 
the  mound  of  their  buried  love  to  the  level,  he  had 
leaped  into  apparition,  passed  beneath  her  window 
like  the  uneasy  spirit  of  Denmark. 

For  three  hours  she  hung  upon  the  sill,  waiting  to 
confirm  the  witness  of  her  eyes.  At  last  she  gave 
him  up,  accepted  him  as  an  hallucination,  an  acci 
dental  explosion  of  a  neglected  memory;  look,  where 
it  comes  again ! 

Along  the  walk  the  specter  proceeded,  floating 
again  toward  her  window.  But  the  footsteps  were 
audible,  real.  He  looked  as  he  had  looked  when  he 
graduated — only  that  his  clothes  were  of  the  imme 
diate  fashion. 

She  leaned  out  to  stare.  He  glanced  up  care 
lessly.  His  eyes  met  hers  dully,  with  a  blur  of  un- 
recognition.  Even  his  ghost  had  forgotten  her !  He 
lowered  his  eyes  before  her  searching  gaze.  But  he 
looked  up  again,  paused  an  instant,  made  as  if  to 
lift  his  hat,  dropped  his  hand,  and  moved  on,  flush 
ing  a  little  at  her  earnest  scrutiny.  She  followed  him 
with  a  mournful  stare,  shook  her  head  over  him  as 
one  dead,  or  as  though  it  had  been  Beatrice  that  met 
Dante's  spirit  in  the  other  world  and  mourned  his 
loss  to  earth. 

A  few  steps  farther,  the  ghost  turned  and  tried  to 
steal  a  glance  over  his  shoulder;  but,  seeing  her 
sentinel  eyes  still  on  him,  went  on  in  confusion. 
Just  then  Frank  Chiwis  came  along,  looked  up  at 
the  famous  window,  waved  his  hat,  and  sang  out, 
impudently : 

"Oh,  you  Lalage!" 

But  she  did  not  see  him.  The  unknown  passer-by 

1 60 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

was  looking  back  at  her  again,  and  walked  on,  look 
ing  back,  till  the  low  branch  of  a  tree  intervened. 
Then  the  ghost  was  gone. 

After  a  moment  of  occult  loneliness  she  realized 
that  her  ghost  was  only  a  coincidence,  wearing  by 
chance  a  reappearing  resemblance.  But  how  like  he 
was  to  the  first  lover,  who  vanished  down  the  walk 
with  that  same  retroverted  gaze  and  never  came  back. 

Wasn't  there  a  song  or  a  joke  or  a  series  of  carica 
tures  called  They  Never  Come  Back?  It  was  no 
joke  to  Lalage  Lorton.  It  brought  her  head  low  and 
her  tears  in  a  stream.  Girlhood,  first  love,  first 
vows,  illusions,  hopes — they  also  never  come  back. 

Cruelest  of  all,  it  was  that  Douglas  Wier's  wraith 
should  return  in  his  forenoon  youth  to  her  in  her 
candlelighting  hour.  If  he  had  come  back  old,  and 
found  her  a  spinster,  it  would  have  been  harsh,  yet 
much  less  harsh;  but  this  confrontation  with  the 
living  replica  of  his  early  grace  was  merciless. 

It  is  the  ultimate  irony  of  the  college  widow's  fate 
that  she  sees  only  young  men — always  young  men 
and  boys,  an  unending  pageant  of  youth.  The  stu 
dents  who  flock  to  the  college  towns  are  the  most 
attractive  portion  of  their  sex  at  its  most  enticing 
age.  They  easily  allure  the  young  girls  away  from 
the  town  fellows  that  grow  old  alongside  them  and 
would  normally  be  their  suitors.  The  college  boys 
cannot  marry  the  sweethearts  they  make,  and  the 
end  of  their  course  is  literally  the  commencement  of 
their  struggle  for  existence.  They  must  spend  that 
two,  three,  or  four  years  of  struggle  in  other  towns; 
and  in  those  other  towns  they  meet  other  girls  and 
mate  with  them. 

The  college-town  girls  cannot  help  growing  up 
161 


"MOMMA" 

and  growing  older.  But  the  college  boys  do  not 
grow  up.  The  average  age  remains  the  same.  They 
are  born  as  Freshmen;  they  live  four  years,  and — 
to  that  town — they  die. 

The  academic  current  is  like  that  great  wave  in 
the  whirlpool  at  Niagara.  The  wave  is  always  there, 
hardly  shifting  its  outline;  but  the  drops  of  water 
that  form  it  hurry  through  at  frantic  speed. 

And  the  girls  are  like  the  trees  that  grow  on  the 
banks  of  that  gorge — slowly  maturing  to  sapling 
shapeliness,  flowering,  making  ready  for  fruit,  losing 
their  blossoms  as  sterile  bouquets;  then  slowly 
drooping  into  old  age.  But  the  wave,  eternally 
young,  gleams  and  wavers  and  laughs  before  them. 
Always  at  rest,  it  never  pauses. 

Of  all  the  types  of  old-maidenly  pathos,  the  col 
lege  widow  is  the  saddest.  She  does  not  pine 
neglected,  and  grow  used  to  pining  like  others  of  the 
overlooked,  or  like  nuns  immured  in  cloisters.  She 
is  swept  through  a  serial  romance,  with  a  new  lover 
every  few  chapters.  Brilliant  young  scholars  adore 
her,  talk  learnedly  to  her,  write  poetry  to  her;  tre 
mendous  young  athletes  embrace  her  with  brawny 
arms.  She  is  singed  with  the  fresh  young  fires  of 
latent  Byrons,  Shelleys,  Raleighs,  Sidneys,  and 
Admirable  Crichtons.  She  knows  moonlight  pas 
sions,  engagements,  jealousies,  dangers,  quarrels, 
reconciliations — passions  of  varying  intensity  and 
surrenders  of  varying  degree;  she  knows  all  about  love 
and  lovers,  but  nothing  about  husbands  and  a  home. 

Schooled  only  in  flirtation,  her  dancing  feet  finally 
lay  hold  on  the  pit  of  despair;  and  before  she  has 
ceased  to  be  a  young  girl  she  is  already  an  old  maid, 
and  cannot  believe  it,  cannot  behave  it. 

162 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

When  Arden  University  had  been  Arden  College 
the  president  had  given  an  annual  reception  to  help 
the  incoming  strangers  get  acquainted  with  the  good 
people  of  the  town.  It  was  at  such  a  reception  that 
Lalage  Lorton  had  met  Douglas  Wier. 

Nowadays  the  president  gave  no  such  reception. 
The  college  had  outgrown  the  ingrowing  town;  the 
college  was  sufficient  to  itself.  Lalage  had  watched 
it  change  from  the  little  scholastic  community  where 
athletes  were  rare,  where  Latin  was  sacred  and  Greek 
supersanct. 

"Prexy"  was  always  a  preacher  then.  Nowadays 
he  was  a  business  man,  selected  for  his  hustling 
powers,  his  abilities  to  wheedle  endowments  out  of 
millionaires  and  browbeat  the  alumni  into  donations 
they  could  not  afford. 

Nowadays  Latin  was  an  elective — largely  a  neglec- 
tive — course.  Picturesque  subjects,  snaps  for  the 
big  athletes  who  served  as  press  agents,  and  com 
fortable  classes  for  rich  men's  sons  to  dally  with, 
made  up  the  chief  activities.  Lalage's  last  three 
suitors  did  not  suspect  that  "Lalage"  was  not  her 
real  name;  they  knew  nothing  of  its  connotation. 
And  she  could  not  explain  how  long  ago  she  had 
earned  the  sobriquet,  or  by  what  claims  of  speech 
and  of  classic  mirth. 

The  university  gave  no  more  its  introductory  re 
ception,  but  the  Congregational  church,  eager  to 
recruit  its  attendance,  gave  a  sociable  that  served 
the  same  purpose.  This  year  the  old  ladies  dared 
to  ask  Lalage  to  help  them  out.  She  accepted  with 
a  bitter  smile,  and  they  set  her  to  selling  cocoanut 
cake  at  five  cents  an  entering  wedge. 

As  she  had  hoped,  her  ghost  was  there,  but  he 

163 


1  'MOMMA" 

seemed  shy — as  Douglas  Wier  had  seemed  shy.  He 
seemed  to  know  no  one — as  Douglas  Wier  had  known 
no  one.  She  asked  several  students  his  name,  but 
none  of  them  could  tell  her.  He  stared  at  her  with 
the  same  eyes  that  Douglas  Wier  had  fastened  on 
her  at  their  first  meeting.  He  came  up  and  bought 
a  piece  of  cake — tried  to  speak;  dared  not.  But 
he  dared  to  buy  another,  and  even  a  third  piece 
of  cake. 

She  broached  the  subject  of  the  weather  to  hear 
his  voice,  and  she  quivered  with  emotion  as  she 
stammered : 

"Nice  evening,  isn't  it?" 

And  he  gasped,  "Isn't  it?"  as  passionately  as 
though  he  were  proposing  marriage. 

She  essayed  a  quip : 

"We  prayed  for  a  nice  evening,  and  you  see  the 
result." 

"I  don't  wonder,"  he  throbbed,  and  his  eyes  looked 
idolatry  at  her.  But,  though  he  lingered  till  he  had 
pursued  and  swallowed  the  last  flake  of  white  saw 
dust,  neither  of  them  could  rummage  another  word 
from  their  tempestuous  souls.  She  had  not  learned 
his  name,  for  all  her  evening's  work. 

But  the  next  day  he  passed  by.  She  spoke  to  him 
from  her  window.  He  lifted  his  hat,  smiled — and 
blushed. 

She  watched  where  he  went;  discovered  that  he 
ate  at  the  refectory  and  strolled  back  to  Mrs.  Pitkin's 
to  study. 

He  was  studying  hard.  She  saw  him  one  day  at  a 
window.  She  watched  that  window.  The  light 
burned  late.  She  would  sit  for  hours  in  the  dark, 
staring  at  his  lamplit  curtain,  her  heart  leaping  with 

164 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

excitement  if  the  shadow  of  his  head  so  much  as 
crossed  in  silhouette. 

It  would  not  have  been  hard  to  ask  Mrs.  Pitkin  his 
name,  or  to  learn  it  in  some  other  way ;  but  she  pre 
ferred  to  tantalize  herself  with  guessing;  preferred 
to  imagine  herself  once  more  the  young  girl  that 
waited  a  whole  year,  worshiping  that  wide-eyed 
Freshman  and  nourishing  her  heart  on  its  worship. 

One  evening,  when  the  young  stranger  went  by 
from  his  dinner,  she  was  sitting  on  the  porch  by 
chance — at  least,  she  was  sitting  there. 

She  bowed  to  him,  and  swept  him  with  one  of  those 
smiles  an  earlier  generation  had  written  poems  about. 
In  those  days  a  student  of  Greek  had  called  her  by 
Aphrodite's  epithet,  "  Philommeides  " — or  something 
like  that — which  he  translated  "Smile-sweet." 

Before  that  historic  smile  the  youth  paused  on  the 
walk,  riveted  in  a  stare. 

She  said,  "Why  do  you  always  pass  by?" 

He  answered  by  coming  in.  He  sank  on  the  steps 
as  though  a  siren  had  bewitched  him  for  his  bones. 
He  stared  at  her  so  hard  that  she  had  to  make  all 
the  conversation.  She  let  the  weather  go,  and  tried 
to  get  him  to  talk  about  himself.  Ordinarily  that 
was  not  a  hard  accomplishment  with  the  students, 
but  it  was  only  after  the  most  persistent  and  adroitly 
veiled  inquiry  that  she  learned  anything  about  this 
one.  She  learned  that  he  had  gone  to  another  college 
for  his  A.B.,  but  had  decided  to  come  to  Arden  for 
graduate  studies  because  his  father  had  been  an 
Arden  man  in  his  day. 

Ridiculous  agonies  clutched  her  as  she  heard  these 
unimportant  details.  And  she  almost  strangled  as 
she  asked: 

165 


"MOMMA" 

"Who  was  your  father?     Perhaps  I  knew  him." 

He  laughed  aloud  at  this.  It  was  the  first  time 
she  had  heard  him  laugh.  The  sound  was  horrible 
to  her,  for  it  was  like  a  peal  of  rollicking  gayety  bub 
bling  up  from  a  closed  grave.  When  he  sobered 
down  from  his  youthful  parody  of  long-forgotten 
laughter,  he  explained: 

"You?  Perhaps  you  knew  my  father!  Why,  he 
graduated  before  you  were  born,  Miss  Lorton.  His 
year  was " 

Again  that  clamorous  year.  She  clenched  her 
throat  with  one  lean  hand,  to  steady  her  words  into 
the  tone  of  idle  curiosity. 

"What  was  your  father's  name?" 

"The  same  as  mine,"  he  laughed. 

"But  I  don't — as  a  matter  of  fact  I  don't  know 
your  name."  She  said  it  in  that  liquid  dulce-loquent 
voice  of  the  old  Lalage,  and  the  young  fellow's  ears 
felt  its  music.  His  voice  became  gentler,  and  he 
said,  apologetically: 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!  I  ought  to  have  told 
you.  I  thought  you  knew.  Foolish  of  me,  but  I 
just  naturally  supposed  that  you  knew;  though,  of 
course,  you  couldn't  have  guessed  it  very  well,  could 
you?" 

"What  is  your  name?"  This  in  such  a  raucous, 
torn-out  voice,  that  he  started,  then  mumbled: 

"I'm  Douglas  Wier,  Second." 


in 

If  only  he  had  called  himself  "Junior,"  or  "the 

son  of,"  or  anything  but  that  newfangled  "second" ! 

He  sat  and  talked  and  talked — about  his  father, 

166 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

she  imagined;  but  she  could  not  hear  him,  and  she 
was  not  sure  just  what  her  other  self,  her  ordinary, 
workaday  self,  said  in  reply — if  anything. 

The  moon  that  had  stared  into  the  porch  slipped 
under  a  cloud,  and  in  the  dark  the  young  fellow  on 
the  steps  was  only  a  voice.  Exactly  that  voice  had 
murmured  there  how  many  times,  how  long  ago !  The 
shadowy  form  whence  that  voice  used  to  rise  used 
to  reach  up  to  the  rocking  chair  where  she  sat,  and 
take  her  hand ;  sometimes  even  lean  his  head  against 
her  knee  and  stare  up  into  her  face,  whispering: 

"I  love  you,  Lalage.  Sweet-spoken  Lalage,  I  love 
you;  you  sweet-laughter!" 

She  used  to  bend  down  and  stare  into  his  moonlit 
eyes,  and  caress  his  cheeks,  tousle  his  hair,  tweak  his 
ears.  Then  he  would  kiss  her  hand.  Sometimes, 
when  he  had  grown  very  sure  of  her,  he  would  growl 
like  a  fox  terrier,  just  like  a  fox  terrier — it  was  a 
remarkable  imitation.  And  he  would  snap  at  her 
hand,  seize  a  finger  in  his  teeth,  and  shake  it  snarl- 
ingly,  as  though  it  were  a  mouse.  And  how  they 
would  laugh! — softly,  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  old 
people  upstairs,  but  all  the  more  deliciously. 

She  must  have  mused  a  long  time  over  these  relics 
of  her  first  love,  for  suddenly  she  heard  the  real  voice 
above  the  remembered  voice. 

"I  must  apologize  for  staying  so  long." 

"Don't  go,"  she  said,  from  far  away. 

' ' I  must.  I've  got  to  bone  up.  They  push  us  post 
grads  mighty  hard."  And  he  was  gone,  leaving  her 
to  forlorn  imaginings. 

Two  or  three  evenings  later  she  was  on  the  porch 
again  when  he  passed.  He  did  not  wait  to  be  asked. 
He  said : 

167 


"MOMMA" 

"May  I  come  in?" 

He  stayed  longer  that  evening,  and  again  she  heard 
his  voice,  like  a  remote  murmur.  Again  he  apologized 
for  staying  so  late,  but  she  had  no  idea  of  the  hour. 

He  came  oftener  and  oftener. 

He  fascinated  her,  held  her  spellbound  with  curi 
osity.  It  was  like  converse  with  the  dead;  it  was 
returning  to  her  own  youth.  In  the  shadow  of  the 
late  clinging  vines,  or  in  the  mellow  radiance  of  the 
moon,  she  could  imagine  herself  young — a  mere  girl 
again.  Into  her  autumn  there  had  come  an  Indian 
summer. 

She  was  living  back  over  her  youth.  Her  blood 
ran  along  her  veins  in  a  spring  tide.  She  felt  anew 
the  thrills  of  first  womanhood.  She  realized  that 
she  was  still  all  girlish,  round,  elastic,  pliant.  It  was 
such  luxury  that  she  could  not  be  glad  enough. 

She  waited  for  Douglas  Wier,  Second,  as  for  a 
magician  who  made  the  years  vanish.  He  was  a 
kind  of  hashish.  She  became  addicted  to  him. 

And  then,  one  evening,  he  held  her  hand  very  long 
— seemed  to  find  it  hard  to  let  it  go.  He  bent  and 
kissed  it  and  dashed  away,  leaving  her  startled, 
awakened,  with  a  shock. 


IV 

She  told  herself  that  she  must  rebuke  him.  She 
must  not  let  him  lose  his  head  over  her.  But  she 
had  lost  her  head  over  him — or,  rather,  over  the  love 
proxy  that  he  carried. 

One  evening — oh,  but  the  moon  was  a  very  brazier 
of  sorcery!  The  light  from  it  had  savor;  it  was  a 
luminous  perfume;  an  ecstasy. 

168 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

She  had  never  felt  so  free  of  the  raiment  of  years. 
She  reveled  in  youth;  youth  streamed  through  her 
like  another  moonlight.  The  moon  that  had  waned 
had  waxed  again  to  the  full  orb.  It  issued  from  a 
cloud  like  a  sudden  gush  of  music. 

Then  young  Wier  reached  up  and  took  her  hand. 
She  was  frightened,  but  she  could  not  resist.  He 
clung  to  it  with  both  hands,  brushed  his  cheek  against 
it.  He  kept  silent  so  long  that  she  thought  he  must 
have  fallen  asleep. 

She  spoke  to  him.  "What  are  you  thinking  of?" 

"Of  how  much  I  love  you." 

He  put  his  head  back  and  looked  up  into  her  eyes. 
The  moonlight  overspread  his  face.  His  head  lay 
in  her  lap  like  the  head  on  the  charger  of  the  daughter 
of  Herodias.  She  almost  shrieked  to  find  Douglas 
Wier  staring  up  at  her  so  uncannily  from  the  shadow. 

She  pushed  the  boy  away  and  managed  to  rise, 
with  shaking  knees. 

' '  You  must  go  now.  It  is  very  late.  All  the  lights 
are  out  along  the  street." 

"Do  you  hate  me?    Tell  me  you  don't  hate  me." 

"I  don't  hate  you." 

"Tell  me  you — love  me  a  little." 

"Good  night,  Douglas." 

The  name,  once  so  frequent  on  her  lips,  came  from 
her  heart  like  a  knife  dragged  from  a  wound,  and  it 
seemed  that  all  her  blood  rushed  out  after  it.  She 
stumbled  into  the  house. 

The  hall  was  full  of  ghosts.  The  stairway  was 
haunted.  Her  room  was  weird  till  she  could  light 
a  lamp. 

As  she  undressed  she  lifted  away  a  coil  of  pur 
chased  hair.  She  took  off  the  graceful  waist  and 
12  169 


"MOMMA" 

collar  that  spoke  so  well  of  her  throat  and  shoulders. 
The  light  threw  strong  shadows  on  her  cheeks,  her 
deep  eyes,  and  her  neck.  She  saw  her  many,  many 
years. 

She  glanced  miserably  at  her  bed,  her  narrow 
spinster's  bed.  She  was  an  old  maid.  If  Douglas 
Wier  had  kept  his  word  she  would  have  been  a  wife; 
this  boy  would  have  been  her  boy,  instead  of  a  taunt 
ing  effigy  sent  to  confound  her  with  bitter  mockery. 
Now  she  would  never  be  a  wife.  She  would  never 
have  a  child. 

She  got  out  the  photograph  album.  There  was  a 
tintype  of  herself  and  Douglas  Wier  taken  together. 
Her  skirts  hardly  reached  her  -shoetops.  She  was 
awkward,  but  with  the  awkwardness  of  a  young  girl. 
Now  she  was  gawky,  with  the  ungainliness  of  a 
spinster.  Then  she  was  frolicsome;  now  she  was 
kittenish.  Now  she  was  flat-chested  and  gaunt- 
hipped.  Then  she  was  narrow-hipped  and  shallow- 
breasted,  but  with  the  budding  promise  of  early 
youth. 

She  stood  revealed  to  herself,  and  she  judged  her 
self  scathingly;  but  she  blamed  Douglas  Wier  for 
the  bankruptcy  of  her  hopes  and  her  rights. 

She  blew  out  the  lamp  with  a  contemptuous  puff. 
In  the  dark  and  chill  of  her  bed  she  surveyed  her  soul 
as  ruthlessly  as  she  had  surveyed  her  body.  Here 
was  more  bitterness,  for  it  came  upon  her  suddenly 
what  a  desperate  flirt  she  had  been  for  years  and 
years.  She  counted  up  her  lovers.  She  could  not 
remember  them  all. 

At  times  this  had  given  her  a  little  flick  of  pride. 
Now  it  shamed  her.  She  had  begun  life  believing 
that  one  loves  but  once.  She  had  given  her  one  love 

170 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

to  Douglas  Wier.  She  had  wept  and  waited  and 
hoped  for  his  return. 

He  got  his  position — at  a  better  salary  than  he 
had  expected;  but  he  had  written  her  that  he  could 
not  ask  her  to  try  to  live  on  it  with  him.  He  wrote 
her  proudly  of  his  first  raise  of  pay,  but  neglected  to 
send  for  her  then.  He  was  offered  a  position  that 
would  take  him  to  California,  and  accepted. 

She  had  felt  that  he  was  false  to  her.  She  had 
cried  for  days.  Then,  in  pique,  she  had  accepted  an 
invitation  from  another  young  fellow,  a  Senior,  whom 
she  would  not  have  looked  at  when  Douglas  Wier 
was  a  Senior.  She  had  been  surprised  to  find  how 
pleasant  his  company  was.  Before  he  graduated  she 
had  become  engaged  to  him.  He  also  had  not  come 
back  nor  sent  for  her.  She  revenged  herself  on  him 
the  same  way.  Consolation  was  even  more  facile. 

After  that  the  deluge.  In  turn,  she  had  learned 
to  be  betrothed  to  one  man  and  to  encourage  another; 
to  be  betrothed  to  two  men  and  to  run  her  engage 
ment  books  with  double  entry.  She  had  acquired 
the  habit  of  telling  each  new  man  that  he  was  the 
first  she  ever  really  loved.  She  had  learned  to  be 
lieve  it. 

And  so  her  soul  had  lapsed  to  a  mere  entertainer 
of  transients,  an  inn  where  any  traveler  might  put 
up.  When  the  guests  ceased  to  crowd  in  of  their 
own  free  will  she  had  stooped  to  encourage  and  to 
allure  and  to  set  her  cap  for  patronage. 

And  now,  as  she  regarded  her  naked  soul  with 
cynical  eyes,  she  condemned  herself  as  a  promiscuous 
woman,  incapable  of  fidelity,  avid  of  excitement. 

And  for  this  also  she  blamed  Douglas  Wier. 

The  next  evening  Douglas  Wier's  son  was  at  her 
171 


"MOMMA" 

door  again.  She  told  her  forlorn  old  mother  to  tell 
him  she  was  ill.  He  went  away,  and  she  found  the 
evening  wretchedly  long  and  lonely.  Courtship  of 
some  sort  had  become  a  necessity,  like  a  drug. 

The  next  evening  he  came  again  and  she  went  out 
to  see  him.  But  she  was  harsh  with  him;  she 
wreaked  on  him  the  spite  she  felt  for  his  father. 

The  boy  was  crushed  with  regret.  He  accused 
himself,  begged  her  forgiveness  for  his  presumption, 
but  laid  the  blame  on  her  beauty,  her  fascination,  his 
irresistible  love. 

The  irony  of  it!  Douglas  Wier  had  made  a  fool 
of  her,  had  preferred  another  woman  to  her,  had 
begotten  a  child  for  that  other  woman,  and  now  that 
child,  grown  to  his  father's  age,  made  love  to  the 
father's  first  love!  She  exulted  in  this  burlesque  of 
fate.  She  gave  herself  more  to  the  young  man's 
pleading,  played  with  his  affection,  kindled  it.  Young 
Wier,  with  the  frame  of  a  man  and  the  mind  of  a 
man,  was  an  inexperienced  novice  in  the  power  of 
such  expert  coquetry  as  Lalage  had  achieved.  It 
amused  her  to  see  how  madly  Douglas  Wier's  son 
could  be  conquered  by  Douglas  Wier's  first  conquest. 
Her  last  college  year  promised  to  be  more  interesting 
than  any  other  since  the  first. 


After  a  while  of  this  ruthless  experiment  in  vivi 
section  Lalage  was  told  by  some  of  the  town  gossips 
that  the  Delta  Chi  Delta  fraternity  was  to  hold  a 
formal  initiation  of  such  of  the  newcomers  as  it 
had  been  able  to  pledge  from  among  those  it  had 
decided  to  honor  with  an  offer  of  admission. 

172 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

A  few  of  the  alumni  were  to  be  present  at  the  cere 
mony  to  tell  the  awe-struck  chapter  how  much  of 
their  dubious  success  in  life  they  owed  to  their  be 
loved  fraternity.  Lalage  had  forgotten  to  ask  young 
Wier  if  he  would  join  his  father's  Greek-letter  society. 
She  wondered  now  if  he  were  among  the  initiates. 
He  did  not  call  on  her  that  evening,  and  she  won 
dered  whether  the  secret  of  his  fraternity  would  be 
the  first  he  would  have  from  her. 

Late  in  the  forenoon  following  the  initiation 
Lalage's  mother  fluttered  upstairs  to  tell  her  that 
she  had  a  caller.  The  students  did  not  call  in  the 
mornings.  Her  mother  said  that  the  visitor  was  a 
grown  man — named  Calvin  Newby. 

Lalage  felt  a  strange  thrill.  Cal  Newby  had  been 
one  of  her  lovers.  His  class  was  three  years  later 
than  Douglas  Wier  the  First's.  She  had  as  glib  a 
memory  for  class  numbers  as  a  broker  for  stock  quo 
tations.  As  she  primped  hastily  she  recalled  Cal 
Newby  as  a  big,  ungainly,  jovial  creature,  as  awkward 
and  as  playful  as  a  Newfoundland  pup,  always  say 
ing  the  wrong  thing  in  the  wrong  way.  But  when  she 
tormented  him  with  rivals  he  moped  and  slunk  about 
like  a  scolded  and  beaten  poodle.  His  big  dog  eyes 
had  drooled  with  tears  and  he  had  tried  to  write  a 
sonnet  to  her.  It  was  just  about  the  sort  of  sonnet  a 
Newfoundland  pup  would  write. 

He  had  left  college  to  go  to  sea — his  father  was  a 
freight-ship  owner  or  something  of  that  sort.  He 
had  promised  to  return  for  her  with  a  sack  of  gold. 
And  here  he  was  at  last.  Had  one  of  her  lovers  in 
deed  come  back?  The  very  thought  deleted  nine 
years  from  her  cheeks. 

Her  feet  drummed  a  little  flourish  as  she  flitted 


"MOMMA" 

down  the  stairs  and  darted  into  the  room.  She  for 
got  young  Wier,  and  was  once  more  all  Lalage. 

"Hello,  Cal!"  she  cried,  as  she  put  out  both  her 
hands. 

"The  same  old  Lalage!"  he  said,  as  he  took  them. 
He  was  big,  burly,  matured,  spectacled,  but  still  a 
pup  that  never  grew  up.  "This  does  take  me  back 
to  ancient  times  again!  How  long  ago  was  it? — a 
hundred  years,  I  guess.  We're  both  about  twice  as 
old  as  we  were,  but  I  can  still  see  something  of  the 
old  Lalage  in  that  naughty  little  twinkle  in  your 
eyes.  You're  not  wearing  glasses  yet,  I  see.  I  am." 

He  had  begun  by  spilling  at  her  feet  a  whole 
scuttleful  of  wrong  things.  She  wanted  to  slap  him. 
Still,  she  must  forgive  him  much  for  coming  back. 

He  plounced  into  a  chair;  it  received  him  with  a 
grunt  of  dismay.  She  placed  herself  as  gracefully 
as  possible  in  another  chair.  Newby  continued  to 
guffaw. 

"Well,  well,  well!  So  you're  not  married  yet,  eh? 
You  wouldn't  think  I  had  a  son  playing  center  rush 
at  Princeton  and  a  daughter  that's  already  in  long 
skirts,  would  you?" 

"Really?"  she  said,  regretting  that  she  had  not 
slapped  him. 

Still,  he  might  be  a  widower.  Widowers,  she 
knew,  came  back.  She  listened  for  news.  She  was 
not  kept  waiting  long. 

"I  ran  down  to  the  banquet  of  my  old  frat.  My 
wife  wanted  to  come,  but  I  thought  I'd  like  to  get 
an  evening  off  with  the  boys.  Quite  a  crowd  of  the 
old  fellows  showed  up.  Most  of  'em  took  the  early 
train  back,  but  I  thought  I'd  stop  over  for  a  look 
round.  Passed  your  porch.  My  feet  turned  in,  just 

i74 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

as  if  I  were  an  old  horse  remembering  an  old  path 
way.  What  a  young  fool  I  was  over  you,  Lalage!" 

She  tried  to  laugh  politely ;  it  was  a  rather  sickly 
effort — it  would  never  have  won  her  the  epithet 
* ' sweet-laughing. "  But  he  went  garrulously  on : 

"I  wasn't  the  only  one  that  was  crazy  about  you. 
Not  by  a  long  shot.  Judging  from  what  some  of  the 
undergrads  told  us  last  night  you're  still  the  prize 
hen  pheasant  round  here — still  doing  business  at  the 
old  stand.  .  .  .  Well,  well !  What  would  Arden  have 
been  without  you?  Old  Peplow  and  I  got  to  talking 
about  you.  He  was  two  classes  ahead  of  me,  but  I 
licked  him  for  calling  on  you  on  my  evening.  We 
rolled  round  the  campus,  and  he  pulled  out  a  hand 
ful  of  my  hair  in  his  excitement.  I  gave  you  a  lock 
of  it.  Got  it  yet?" 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  did  not  pause. 

"Then  Pinky  Grimager — he's  a  famous  physician 
now — joined  us  and  confessed  that  he  and  you  had 
planned  to  elope.  He  had  the  license  bought  and 
the  minister  arranged  for,  but  you  backed  out.  It 
was  the  night  of  the  Junior  prom.,  and  you  refused 
to  miss  it.  Oh,  but  you  were  the  wild  young  heart- 
breaker  ! 

"Then  Sam  Tarrant  butted  in.  He's  a  big  insur 
ance  man  now — came  near  going  to  the  penitentiary 
during  the  excitement  a  few  years  ago.  Sam  offered 
to  bet  that  he'd  proposed  to  you  oftener  than  any 
body  there.  Tuck  Crawford  took  him  up,  but  Sam 
won  by  proving  that  he  proposed  to  you  after  he 
left  college.  He  said  he  wrote  you  half  a  dozen  ex 
post  facto  proposals.  Finally,  when  you  didn't  an 
swer,  he  sent  you  a  long  telegram  begging  you  to 
marry  him.  He  says  you  answered  in  three  words, 


"MOMMA" 

'Oh,  shut  up!'  I  guess  you  were  wise.  He's  been 
vaccinated  three  times — it  never  took.  Two  di 
vorces  and  one  funeral. 

"Tom  Sprague  said  he  pawned  his  overcoat  to 
buy  you  a  little  diamond  ring,  and  you  lost  it  the 
next  evening  on  a  moonlight  sleigh  ride  with  another 
fellow.  Larry  Henshaw  and  Skid  Kyle  shook  hands 
last  night  for  the  first  time  in  eighteen  years.  They 
were  both  engaged  to  you  at  once,  and  they  didn't 
speak  all  through  their  Senior  year. 

"Finally  old  Charlie-horse  Ranney — remember 
him? — he's  quite  a  prominent  politician  now — 
minority  leader  in  the  Oklahoma  senate — he  was  up 
North,  so  he  ran  down  to  the  initiation.  Well, 
Ranney  proposed  that  all  your  old  flames  organize 
a  society  like  the  exempt  firemen,  and  call  it  the 
'Ex-Lovers  of  Lalage  Association,  Unlimited.'  Sam 
Tarrant  seconded  it,  and  I  moved  that  we  hold  a 
convention  once  a  year  in  Madison  Square  Garden. 
It  passed  without  a  dissenting  vote  from  any  of  us. 
They  elected  me  secretary.  Good  idea,  eh?" 

She  sat  cringing  under  the  man's  idiotic  cruelty. 
She  could  have  torn  him  to  pieces,  but  it  would  have 
shown  him  that  his  words  had  weight  with  her. 
She  preferred  to  mask  her  agony  and  smile.  She 
said: 

"It's  a  fine  idea.     I'm  greatly  flattered." 

He  looked  at  his  watch  and,  to  her  infinite  relief, 
gasped,  "I've  got  to  scoot  for  my  train." 

As  he  rose,  the  thought  came  to  her  terrifyingly 
that  Douglas  Wier,  Second,  might  have  been  there  and 
heard  all  this  revelation  of  her.  That  would  be  an 
intolerable  humiliation,  the  end  of  her  one  luxury. 

At  the  door  she  said: 

176 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

"By  the  way,  Cal,  did  you  initiate  a  fellow  named 
Wier — Douglas  Wier — last  night?" 

"No,  I  think  not.  I'm  sure  not.  I'd  have  re 
membered  that  name.  Old  Dug  Wier  was  coming 
down,  but  he  couldn't  get  away.  His  wife  wouldn't 
let  him.  He  said  he  had  a  son  here;  I  suppose  he's 
after  you,  too.  Oh,  but  you're  the  original  Lorelei. 
Well,  good-by.  Take  good  care  of  the  boys." 

He  was  laughing  so  hard  that  he  tripped  on  the 
steps  and  went  galumphing  down.  Even  this  did 
not  sober  his  Newfoundland  hilarity.  The  only 
thing  that  could  have  wrung  a  laugh  from  her  would 
have  been  the  sight  of  him  breaking  his  neck. 

All  that  day  sudden  anguishes  of  fear  went 
through  her  like  hot  flashes  and  chills.  She  could 
not  believe  that  Douglas  Wier  had  not  been  at  the 
initiation  or  that  at  least  he  had  not  been  told  of  the 
outrageous  discussion. 

She  felt  that  he  would  never  come  to  her  porch 
again.  But  there  he  was  as  usual  that  night,  punc 
tual  as  the  evening  star.  This  comforted  her,  but 
she  needed  assurance.  She  ventured  to  ask: 

"The  Delta  Chi  Delts  had  an  initiation  last  night. 
Did  you  go?" 

"Me?  Oh  no.  That  was  Dad's  frat.  You  see,  I 
went  to  Scannell,  and  there's  no  chapter  of  the  Delts 
there.  I  joined  the  Phi  Chi  Psi's.  And  there's  no  chap 
ter  of  that  here.  So  it  leaves  me  rather  lonely;  or  it 
would  if  it  weren't  for  you.  You're  my  one  friend 
here.  This  porch  is  my  chapter  house.  I've  been 
wondering  if  you  would  honor  me  by  wearing  my  pin. ' ' 

This  was  a  fraternity  emblem  she  had  never  worn. 
She  had  been  decorated  with  all  the  rest  of  the  Greek 
alphabet. 

177 


"MOMMA" 

"I'd  love  to,"  she  said,  and  he  took  it  from  his 
waistcoat. 

"It's  rather  pretty,"  he  went  on.  "The  name  is 
a  secret,  but  I  can  tell  you.  I  couldn't  have  a  secret 
from  you.  The  name  is  Philotes  chre  psuches.  I 
don't  imagine  it's  very  good  Greek,  but  it  is  sup 
posed  to  mean,  'Friendship  is  a  necessity  of  the 
soul.'  Will  you  wear  it?" 

"Over  my  heart,"  she  murmured,  and  pinned  it 
there.  Her  phrase  and  the  music  of  her  voice  stirred 
him  to  unwonted  courage. 

"There's  one  other  emblem  I  wish  you'd  wear 
for  me." 

"What's  that?"  she  asked. 

"This  ring.  I've  been  carrying  it  for  days.  I — 
I've  been  afraid  to  ask  you  to  put  it  on.  May  I?" 

He  seized  the  hand  in  her  lap  and,  selecting  the 
wrong  finger,  held  the  ring  before  its  tip.  She 
gasped. 

"Why  should  you  give  me  a — a  ring  like  that?" 
In  the  collet  a  diamond  glowed  like  another  moon. 

"Because  I  want  you  to  wear  it  as — a — as  an — an 
enga-gagement  ring.  Won't  you  ? — please ! ' ' 

"But,  my  dear  boy,  you  don't  want  to  be  engaged 
to  me!" 

"Oh,  but  I  do!  It's  the  one  thing  I  want  most  on 
earth — except  one  thing." 

"And  what's  that?" 

"To  have  you  marry  me.  Will  you?  Could  you? 
Won't  you?  Please!" 

The  proposal  had  been  precipitated  at  her  feet 
with  such  sudden  slips  and  starts  that  she  was  all  con 
fusion.  One  might  have  thought  she  had  never  been 
proposed  to  before.  All  she  could  say  was  a  weak: 

178 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

"But  you  don't  want  to  many  me." 

"I  do!" 

"But  you're  only  a  boy!" 

' ' No,  I'm  not.    And,  anyway,  I'm  a  postgraduate." 

She  could  not  help  a  further  argument:  "But 
what  would  your  father  and  mother  say?" 

"They  wouldn't  mind.  They  want  me  to  be 
happy.  Besides,  I'm  of  age.  I  have  my  own  money, 
too.  An  aunt  of  my  mother's  left  me  enough  for  us 
to  live  on,  and  I  could  earn  more." 

And  then  she  began  to  laugh,  a  wild,  imbecile, 
harsh  laugh,  with  nothing  dulcet  in  its  metal.  He 
edged  away  and  stared  in  bewilderment. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?" 

"I — I  was  just  thinking — just  thinking!"  And 
she  burst  into  another  peal  of  hysterical  clatter  that 
woke  her  mother  from  sleep,  upstairs. 

"Thinking  of  what?"  he  pleaded.  "Were  you 
thinking  that  I  am  ridiculous?" 

She  could  not  be  so  heartless  to  him.  It  was  not 
he,  but  his  father  and  the  procession  of  other  false- 
swearers  that  she  wished  to  hurt — not  this  poor 
devotee.  So  she  caught  his  hands  and  patted  them 
reassuringly,  and  said: 

"No,  no,  dear,  sweet  boy.  I  wasn't  laughing  at 
you,  but  at  something  else.  Forgive  me.  I — I — 
You'd  better  go  now." 

"But  you  haven't  answered  me." 

"I  can't  now.    Please  go!" 

"To-morrow?" 

"Yes,  to-morrow.     Good  night." 

"Will  you  wear  this  ring  till  then?" 

"Yes,  yes,  if  you  will  go.  Good  night,  good 
night!" 

179 


"MOMMA" 

She  fled  within.  He  heard  her  laughing  as  she 
stumbled  up  the  stairs.  It  was  not  pretty  laughter. 
It  alarmed  her  mother,  who  came  barefooted  and 
haggard  to  her  door  and,  finding  it  locked,  called 
through : 

"What's  the  matter,  Bertha?  What  on  earth's 
the  matter  ?  Are  you  sick  ? ' ' 

"Yes,  I'm  sick.  But  I'm  all  right.  Don't  worry. 
Go  back  to  bed.  I'm  all  ri-i-ght ! " 


VI 

She  smothered  her  chuckles  in  her  pillow;  laughed 
till  she  cried;  then  lay  for  hours  thinking.  Her 
thoughts  were  as  harsh  as  her  laughter. 

Here  was  her  revenge;  prepared,  complete,  and 
ready  for  consummation.  To  marry  Douglas  Wier's 
son!  How  the  news  would  waken  old  memories  in 
his  heart!  Old  memories  would  ring  in  that  hard 
shell  like  the  roar  in  a  conch  from  the  sea.  How  he 
would  try  to  explain  to  his  wife!  How  she  would 
rage  at  home  and  smirk  to  the  neighbors ! 

They  could  not  disown  her  or  annul  the  marriage 
or  tear  the  plain  gold  band  from  her  finger. 

Here  was  the  wedding  she  had  longed  for,  and  her 
husband  was  young,  handsome,  brilliant,  devoted. 
He  had  money.  She  would  leave  Arden  at  last  as  a 
bride.  She  would  have  a  home,  children.  She  would 
shake  off  that  tenacious  "Miss."  She  would  be  a 
"Mrs." 

The  Society  of  ex-Lovers  of  Lalage  would  die  un 
formed.  Her  big,  brave  husband  would  knock  their 
heads  together  if  they  breathed  her  name  again. 
They  would  laugh  secretly.  There  would  be  much 

180 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

laughter  over  Lalage's  elopement.  They  would  call 
her  a  cradle  snatcher;  but  the  best  and  the  last  and 
the  loudest  laughter  would  be  hers. 

Even  if  eventually,  when  her  imminent  age  would 
make  her  old,  while  her  husband's  youth  had  years 
and  years  to  run — if  then  he  should  tire  of  her,  and 
desert  her,  still  she  would  be  a  grass  widow,  not  that 
eternal  mockery — a  college  widow.  She  would  have 
known  a  little  respite  from  celibacy.  She  would  not 
die  an  old  maid. 

Oh,  it  was  too  good  a  chance  to  let  slip !  She  fell 
asleep  planning  her  trousseau,  and  she  dreamed  of 
her  honeymoon  on  an  ocean  steamer  and  in  London, 
Paris,  Venice — by  some  Italian  sea. 


VII 

She  awoke  exultant  with  holy  vengeance  and  rap 
turous  desire.  They  called  her  a  Lorelei.  Well,  the 
Lorelei  was  driven  to  her  pique  and  her  cruelty  by 
the  ruin  a  lover  had  made  of  her  trust.  If  the  Arden 
Lorelei  wrecked  young  Wier's  life,  had  not  his  father 
wrecked  hers?  And  the  young  man  was  young 
enough  to  get  over  it.  She  was  too  old  to  hope  for 
another  chance. 

She  feared  only  that  some  accident  might  yet 
forbid  the  perfection  of  her  revenge,  but  he  came 
that  evening  earlier  than  usual.  Fortunately  the 
dark  twilight  came  earlier  still,  for  when  he  marched 
up  the  steps  his  first  words  were,  as  he  poised,  trem 
bling  with  anxiety : 

"Well,  what — what  is  your  answer?" 

"Yes." 

He  seized  her  with  amazing  immediateness,  en- 
181 


"MOMMA" 

/ 

veloped  her  with  an  embrace  that  threatened  to 
crush  her.  She  had  not  foreseen  his  strength  or  the 
ferocity  of  his  joy.  He  covered  her  face  with  kisses, 
smotheringly.  As  though  he  were  already  her  hus 
band,  he  took  his  place  in  her  chair  and  with  un 
questioning  authority  drew  her  forward  to  take  her 
on  his  lap. 

But  she  recoiled.  She  was  afraid  of  this  man. 
This  was  no  ghost,  no  replica.  This  was  not  the 
timid  Douglas  Wier  who  loved  her  for  a  year  and 
only  kissed  her  when  he  wept  to  say  good-by.  This 
was  a  stranger,  a  tyrant.  She  did  not  know  him. 
She  dreaded  him.  But  he  would  not  be  denied. 
His  timidity  had  fallen  from  him  as  though  her  mere 
"Yes"  had  been  a  witch's  abracadabra  to  transform 
him  from  a  lamb  to  a  tiger. 

When  she  protested  he  laughed  and  silenced  her 
lips  with  his  own.  He  rocked  her  in  his  arms  as 
though  she  were  a  child,  and  he  talked  of  nothing  but 
his  unheard-of  joy,  his  pride  in  her,  his  impatience 
to  be  wed  at  once.  Further  delay  in  Arden  and 
further  study  of  books  were  unbearable.  He  and 
his  Lalage  would  study  the  world  together. 

She  submitted  to  his  caresses  and  his  plans  for  fear 
of  him.  The  thought  of  opposing  him  frightened  all 
resistance  from  her.  She  hoped  only  that  he  would 
go  soon  and  let  her  escape  from  the  unexpected 
dominance  of  his  new  mood. 

For  a  culminating  horror,  he  raised  to  his  lips  the 
hand  that  wore  his  engagement  ring,  filled  her  palm 
with  kisses,  and  then,  in  an  access  of  infantile  glee, 
caught  one  of  her  fingers  in  his  teeth,  growled  like  a 
fox  terrier — it  was  a  remarkable  imitation;  he  even 
shook  her  finger  snarlingly  as  though  it  were  a  mouse. 

182 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

That  was  hideous  enough;  but  he  had  to  confess 
that  the  trick  was  not  his  own. 

"You  ought  to  hear  my  father  do  that.  He  gives 
a  wonderful  imitation.  Sometimes,  when  he  and 
mother  are  feeling  spoony  in  their  old  age,  he'll  grab 
her  finger  and  shake  it  and  growl  till  you'd  think  it 
was  a  real  fox  terrier.  And  she'll  squeal  like  a  mouse. 
Oh,  you'll  love  my  mother  and  she'll  love  you." 

To  learn  that  her  old  lover  was  untrue  to  her  was 
hard  to  bear,  but  to  learn  that  he  was  amusing 
another  woman  with  the  silly  love  pranks  he  had 
invented  for  her  was  beyond  endurance. 

She  broke  away  from  the  understudy  of  her  first 
lover,  and  in  a  sharp  voice  insisted: 

"I — I'm  afraid  I  must  ask  you  to  leave  me  now. 
I — I'm  so — so  excited;  I — I'd  better  rest." 

"But  you're  happy,  aren't  you?  You're  terribly 
happy,  aren't  you?"  he  demanded,  fiercely. 

"Yes— yes,  terribly." 

She  thought  she  would  die  before  he  ceased  to 
kiss  her  good  night.  When  he  was  gone  she  had  not 
strength  enough  to  mount  the  stairs  to  her  room. 
She  sank  on  the  steps  and  stayed  there  a  long,  long 
while ;  once  more  made  young  by  the  magic  of  terror ; 
once  more  as  shy,  as  fearsome,  as  the  little  girl  that 
Douglas  Wier  the  First  had  found  sitting  on  the 
stairway  at  the  reception.  It  seemed  centuries  ago. 
She  was  once  more  that  timid  doe,  scared  at  man 
and  his  ways. 

VIII 

Next  morning  the  sky  was  dull  and  the  sunlight 
had  no  mellowness.  It  was  just  daylight — cold, 
clear,  cynical.  It  was  not  illumination,  but  exposure ; 

183 


"MOMMA" 

not  color,  but  fact.     It  demonstrated  everything  in 
clear,  cold  lines  and  planes. 

The  angles  of  the  bureau,  the  surface  of  the  panes 
of  glass,  the  wrinkles  in  the  curtains,  and  life  itself 
were  all  one  pitiless  geometry.  Romance  was  puerile 
extravagance.  Even  revenge  had  no  more  red  glow 
than  the  old  wood  stove  that  needed  polishing  with 
out  and  had  only  ashes  within. 

As  problems  are  often  found  resolved  after  a  night's 
sleep,  so  her  schemes  were  already  debated,  denied, 
wrapped  up  and  put  away  on  a  shelf  when  she  woke. 
She  had  no  power  to  recall  even  her  yesterday's 
enthusiasm.  Her  plan  was  just  an  impossible  child 
ishness,  and  that  was  all. 

She  got  up,  bathed,  dressed,  and  went  about  tidy 
ing  up  the  house  with  a  finicky  old-maidishness  that 
she  somehow  accepted  as  her  final  and  unalterable 
condition  of  servitude. 

When  Douglas  Wier,  Second,  called  that  night  she 
kept  him  at  a  distance  and  told  him  that  she  was 
wrong  to  have  said  yes  and  he  was  crazy  to  have 
asked  her.  She  must  say  no. 

But  he  could  not  accept  dismissal.  He  caught  her 
in  his  arms,  kissed  her,  and  called  her  his  own.  She 
overcame  his  ardor  by  her  frigidity.  She  felt  angry 
at  him;  she  felt  that  he  outraged  her  right  to  be 
herself  and  to  give  or  withhold  her  own  soul.  But 
she  quelled  him  most  by  her  frigidity. 

When  he  understood  he  reverted  to  his  old  weak 
ness  again.  He  pleaded,  argued,  insisted,  pouted, 
and  finally,  with  a  complete  loss  of  American  ideals, 
broke  down  and  sobbed. 

She  felt  so  sorry  for  him  that  at  infinite  sacrifice 
she  brought  herself  to  confess. 

184 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

"You  seem  to  forget  that  I  am  years  and  years 
older  than  you." 

But  he  flung  out,  impatiently:  "What  difference 
does  that  make?  Most  men  marry  women  that  are 
younger  than  they  are — and  most  marriages  are  un 
happy,  aren't  they?  The  happiest  marriage  that 
ever  was  was  Robert  Browning's;  and  his  wife  was 
years  and  years  older  than  he  was." 

She  had  only  her  confession  for  her  pains ;  she  felt 
that  something  must  be  done  to  absolve  the  victim 
of  her  incantation.  It  was  not  enough  to  be  rid  of 
him  and  let  him  grieve  his  heart  out.  She  could  not 
have  treated  a  dog  so  heedlessly. 

She  cast  about  for  some  ether  to  suffocate  his  love 
painlessly.  She  remembered  her  fear  that  he  might 
have  overheard  Cal  Newby  and  the  other  old-wives' 
gossip  at  the  initiation.  She  had  feared  that  if  he 
heard  of  the  convention  of  her  ex-lovers  his  love 
would  die  of  disgust. 

What  might  have  served  then  must  serve  now. 
The  convention  in  Madison  Square  Garden  had 
already  met  in  a  small  way  in  her  photograph  album. 
She  would  parade  the  regiment  of  ex-Lalage  lovers  be 
fore  the  boy  and  let  them  trample  down  his  affection. 
She  would  show  them  all  to  him — except  his  father. 
That  would  be  too  humiliating  to  both  of  them. 

Leaving  him  mopping  his  eyes  and  doubly  shamed 
by  his  tears  and  the  cause  of  them,  she  hurried  up 
to  her  room  and  took  the  album  from  the  table.  It 
was  heavier  than  ever,  and  as  she  came  slowly  down 
the  steps  she  felt  as  if  she  carried  the  last  of  the 
Sibylline  books. 

She  went  to  the  sofa  and  motioned  him  to  sit  by 
her  side.     He  came  with  alacrity. 
13  l85 


"MOMMA" 

Before  she  opened  the  album,  she  said : 

"If  I  am  to  marry  you" — at  this  his  arm  hastened 
to  clasp  her  waist.  It  irked  her,  but  she  made  no 
effort  to  escape  it.  She  thought  that  it  would  soon 
retreat  of  its  own  accord.  "If  I  am  to  marry  you," 
she  repeated,  "there  are  certain  things  about  my  life 
that  you  ought  to  know — you  have  a  right  to  know." 

His  right  arm  crushed  her,  and  he  put  his  left 
hand  out  to  prevent  the  opening  of  the  book. 

"Oh,  Lalage,  I  know  you've  been  in  love  before. 
So  have  I — or  thought  so.  I  don't  want  to  see  the 
pictures  of  the  fellows  that  have  been  crazy  about 
you.  They  couldn't  help  it.  I  don't  want  to  know 
their  names.  It  might  torment  me  if  I  ever  met  any 
of  them.  Just  let  bygones  be  bygones  for  both  of  us. 
Our  lives  are  beginning  all  over  again." 

It  was  a  lovable  thing  to  say,  and  she  looked  up 
at  him  with  a  new  tenderness  and  a  stir  of  strange 
pity.  On  impulse  she  reached  up  and  kissed  him 
lightly,  motheringly.  It  overjoyed  him,  for  he  did 
not  know  that  it  was  a  kiss  of  farewell,  her  "Ave  atque 
Vale!" 

She  persisted,  "But  I  must  show  you  these  pic 
tures — some  of  them,  at  least — and  then — " 

"Well,  if  you  insist,  my  love,"  he  murmured. 

Womanlike,  she  began  at  the  last.  She  lifted  the 
cover  and  the  end  leaf;  there  stood  an  amiable  bar 
barian  in  football  pelts.  This  man's  name  was  hid 
den  on  the  back  of  the  picture,  but  young  Wier 
laughed. 

"Why,  that's  Colby — the  football  wonder — isn't 
it?" 

"That's  Colby,"  she  sighed;  but  Wier  seemed  to 
feel  an  uplift  of  pride  at  winning  what  Colby  had  lost. 

186 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

"Well,  well!  so  the  famous  Colby  loved  you,  too, 
eh?  I  went  to  see  him  play  two  years  ago,  but  he 
wasn't  in  the  game.  He'd  accidentally  crushed  his 
finger." 

' '  Yes,"  she  breathed.  She  hesitated  for  a  moment, 
then  braved  it:  "Colby  was  a  savage  sort  of  fellow. 
He  was  too  wild  for  me.  I — I  couldn't  stand  him. 
Two  evenings  before  that  game  he  called  on  me; 
he  kissed  me  in  spite  of  my  struggles,  and  I  broke 
away  from  him  and  locked  the  door  on  him,  and 
went  up  to  my  room.  It  was  late  and  dark  and  he 
— he  tried  to  climb  up  to  my  window.  I  saw  his 
face  peering  in ;  I  was  horribly  afraid,  but  I  ran  and 
pulled  down  the  sash.  It  crushed  his  finger  and  he 
let  go  and  fell.  It  was  a  wonder  he  wasn't  killed." 

And  now  they  were  both  scarlet,  and  the  man  who 
was  proud  that  the  great  Colby  had  loved  his  bride- 
to-be  was  muttering :  "It  was  a  pity  he  wasn't  killed 
— the  dog!  If  I  ever  see  him — " 

She  ended  the  painful  scene  by  turning  the  leaf. 
She  realized  that  now  his  encircling  arm-  clasped  her 
with  protecting  ardor.  She  felt  that  she  was  not 
making  great  progress  in  her  project. 

"Who's  that?"  he  asked,  somewhat  uncomfort 
ably. 

"That's  Bob  Kenebel.  We  were  engaged,  and — 
and  he  died.  He  caught  pneumonia  and  died  just 
before  Commencement." 

She  felt  a  shiver  run  along  his  arm.  Evidently 
the  man  who  had  died  was  an  even  more  dreaded 
rival  than  the  one  that  ought  to  have  died. 

"Next!"  he  mumbled,  with  a  croak  in  his  throat. 

"That's  Carl  Heslewood.  He — he  was  going  to 
leave  college  to  marry  me,  and  he  went  to  his  pastor 

187 


"MOMMA" 

in  his  home  town  and  asked  him  to  many  us.  But 
the  pastor — his  name  was  Horace  Pollock — here's 
his  picture."  She  was  skimming  the  front  leaves 
rapidly. 

"Good  Heavens!  Is  Horace  there,  too?"  The 
arm  behind  her  seemed  to  wilt  a  bit. 

"Yes,  that's  his  picture.  He  told  Carl  that  he 
oughtn't  to  marry  me,  because  he  had  been  engaged 
to  me  himself,  and  he — he  had  found  out  that  I  was 
engaged  to  another  man  at  the  same  time." 

"What  a  cad  he  was!     It  wasn't  true,  was  it?" 

"I'm  afraid  so.  This  is  the  other  man's  picture. 
See— Sidney  Grinnell." 

The  arm  at  her  waist  was  on  the  back  of  the  sofa 
now,  and  her  lover  sighed  to  his  depths.  She  was 
winning,  but  the  triumph  was  not  comforting.  She 
turned  to  the  back  of  the  book  again,  but  he  groaned : 

"I  don't  want  to  see  any  more." 

' '  But  you  must,  my  dear.  This  is  Stuart  McQuoid. 
Handsome,  isn't  he?"  There  was  no  answer  to 
this.  "I  wouldn't  have  him.  He  drank  and  gam 
bled,  even  in  college.  When  I  found  it  out  I  threw 
him  over,  and  he — he  took  poison.  It  didn't  kill 
him.  They  saved  him  with  a — a  stomach  pump,  I 
believe.  That  part  of  it  wasn't  very  romantic,  was 
it?  And  before  him  I  thought  I  was  madly  in  love 
with  this  boy — Ralph  Temple.  He  was  a  fascinating 
fellow,  and  I — well,  I  found  out  that  he  was  engaged 
to  two  other  girls  in  town  and  one  at  home;  and  then 
it  was  my  turn  to  try  suicide.  I  threw  myself  into 
the  Arden  River.  I  wanted  to  die,  but  I  wanted  to 
live,  too,  and  I'm  not  sure  that  I  didn't  pick  out  a 
shallow  place  on  purpose.  But  I  caught  a  terrible  cold 
and  I've  had  rheumatism  a  good  deal  ever  since." 

188 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

"You  have  rheumatism?"  he  asked,  feebly.  She 
returned  to  the  album  and  sketched  him  a  few  more 
reminiscences  of  a  busy  heart. 

She  knew  that  his  heart  was  aching  with  mortal 
pangs;  but  he  really  loved  her,  and  the  better  side 
of  his  heart  overwhelmed  the  repugnances  he  suf 
fered.  At  length  he  became  masterly  again.  He 
slammed  the  book  shut,  dragged  it  from  her  hands, 
and  dumped  the  chamber  of  horrors  on  the  floor 
with  a  thud. 

"I  won't  look  at  any  more.  It's  fine  of  you  to 
want  me  to  know  all  that,  but  I  can't  stand  any 
more.  I'm  sorry  about  all  those  other  men.  I  wish 
I  could  have  saved  you  from  them." 

"You'd  have  had  to  be  born  so  long  ago,"  she  in 
terposed,  dolefully. 

"I  know  that,  too.  I  wish  I  were  older  than  you, 
so  that  you  would  respect  me  more;  but  the  one 
thing  I  know  is  that  I  love  you,  whatever  you've 
been.  It's  better,  I  guess,  to  have  a  woman's  extra 
lovers  come  before  marriage  than  after.  Nothing 
makes  any  difference,  Lalage.  If  you  love  me  and 
if  I  love  you — nothing  on  earth  matters." 

She  sat  silent  a  long  while,  letting  him  hold  her 
and  shelter  her  from  everything  hateful  and  futile 
in  past  and  future.  She  was  very  near  to  accepting 
his  creed  of  "nothing  matters."  But  even  as  she 
closed  her  eyes  and  swayed  toward  his  heart  her 
last  glance  fell  on  the  album  and  she  sighed: 

"One  thing  matters,  Douglas — one  thing.  There's 
one  other  picture  you  must  see." 

"No,  no!" 

1 '  Yes ! ' '  She  writhed  from  his  arms  and,  dropping 
to  her  knees,  reached  out  and  drew  the  album  to 

189 


"MOMMA" 

her.  Opening  it  again,  she  sat  back  on  her  heels 
and  looked  up  into  his  eyes  to  watch  him  as  he 
bent  forward. 

She  saw  his  face  jolted  as  if  with  a  fist.  She  saw 
it  whiten  as  the  blood  was  sucked  back  into  his 
wounded  heart.  She  saw  it  flash  crimson  as  the 
blood  was  regurgitated  into  every  vein.  She  saw 
his  mouth  quiver  and  set  hard,  as  though  with  sud 
den  age. 

1 '  My  father ! "  he  whispered.  He  turned  and  stared 
at  her,  and  seemed  to  appraise  her  years  for  the  first 
time. 

Then  he  threw  his  head  back  and  laughed,  shouted, 
writhed,  rocked,  with  primeval  uproar. 

"My  own  father!"  he  howled.  "My  o-o-own  fa- 
ha-ha-ha —  Oh!  ho-ho-ow — how — how — he — he" — 
all  the  imbecile  noises  the  human  animal  shakes  out 
when  his  diaphragm  is  seized  with  a  colic. 

Lalage  sat  at  his  feet,  humbled  to  the  lowest  dust; 
she  had  had  the  last  laugh  for  her  own  and  she  had 
turned  it  over  to  him.  The  martyrdom  of  ridicule 
is  hard  to  bear  with  stateliness.  She  resented  the 
absence  of  beauty  and  dignity  in  her  sacrifice. 

When  he  had  laughed  himself  limp,  and  sat  staring 
at  her  through  bleary  eyes,  his  lips  still  fluttering 
with  the  last  bubbles  of  laughter,  she  said: 

"Yes — that  is  your  father.  I  owe  everything — 
the  whole  ruination  of  my  life — to  your  father.  He 
taught  me  to  believe  that  no  man  is  worth  trusting. 
He  started  me  on  the  path  of  being  a  silly,  shallow, 
hopeless  flirt.  I  owe  him  this  big  album-load  of 
affairs,  with  this  pack  of  lovers  and  liars  and  for- 
getters.  They're  bad  enough,  but  he  was  the  worst 
of  them.  He  took  my  heart  when  it  was  young  and 

190 


THE  COLLEGE  LORELEI 

innocent  and  he  ruined  my  life.  Your  father  was 
a  cad — a  cad  and  a  beast." 

"Oh,  come  now!" — and  he  glowered  truculently 
— "I  can't  permit  you  to  slander  my  father.  Dad's 
a  noble,  splendid  man.  He  was  only  a  boy,  then, 
and  you've  no  right  to  cherish  it  against  him.  He's 
a  splendid  man,  and  I  can't  let  even  you  criticize 
him." 

"You  can't,  can't  you?  Well,  then,  you'd  better 
go  back  to  your  father,  and  to  that  wife  of  his  whose 
finger  he  shakes  like  a  fox  terrier.  Go  tell  her  that 
he  used  to  work  that  trick  on  me!  Go  tell  her 
that!" 

It  was  unworthy  of  Lalage,  but  instinct  taught  her 
that  it  was  the  final  stab  to  the  boy's  love.  He  rose 
in  a  hurricane  of  wrath. 

"You  leave  my  mother's  name  out  of  this.  My 
mother  is  a  good  woman.  She  has  no  photograph 
album  full  of — of — a — a  syndicate  of  lovers." 

She  thought  of  various  crushing  things  to  say  in 
retort,  but  she  had  had  enough  of  the  Wier  family. 
She  was  glad  to  see  that  this  was  to  be  the  last  of 
them.  She  rose  from  the  floor,  leaving  the  album 
there.  She  took  off  the  engagement  ring,  took  off 
the  fraternity  pin,  placed  them  in  his  hand,  crossed 
to  the  door,  turned,  and  spoke  with  the  melodious 
voice  of  the  early  Lalage: 

"I  was  trying  to  cure  you  of  your  foolish  infatua 
tion.  I  think  the  cure  is  complete.  I  restore  you  to 
your  parents  with  my  compliments." 

Then,  with  a  bow  of  thirty  years  ago,  she  mur 
mured  : 

"Good  night,  Mr.  Douglas  Wier,  Second." 

She  swept  out  and  moved  up  the  stairs  like  a 
191 


"MOMMA" 

grand  dame  of  the  old  school;  but  she  was  giggling 
as  only  Lalage  could  ripplingly  giggle. 

When  Douglas,  left  alone  on  the  battlefield,  real 
ized  his  position,  he  set  out  for  the  door  and  stum 
bled  over  the  bulky  album.  He  gave  it  a  healthy 
kick  in  his  best  football-punting  style.  It  did  him 
good  and  enabled  him  to  march  out  of  the  house  in 
excellent  order,  as  befitted  the  last  of  the  Lorton 
regiment. 

Miss  Lorton's  window  has  thick  curtains  now; 
she  has  taken  up  fancy  stitching  and  nursing,  and 
the  other  jobs  that  make  an  old  maid's  life  beautiful 
and  her  presence  dear.  Everybody  remarks  that  her 
voice  is  more  dulcet  than  ever,  and  invalids  say  that 
it  is  medicine  just  to  hear  her  laugh. 


VII 
YELLOW  CORDS 

THE  Rev.  Cuthbert  Beesley  had  not  known  horses 
any  better  than  men.  His  acquaintance  with 
horses  had  been  limited  to  a  few  lessons  at  a  riding 
academy,  where  he  found  his  nag  ready  to  ride, 
and  rode  it;  then  surrendered  it  to  oblivion.  The 
difference,  however,  between  an  occasional  Valhalla 
flight  along  a  bridle  path  and  the  pompless  circum 
stance  of  nursing  a  horse  with  currycomb,  pitchfork, 
and  shovel,  is  a  profound  difference. 

Mr.  Beesley  came  late  into  the  soldiery  to  fill  the 
vacancy  left  by  an  ancient  chaplain  convicted  of  a 
murmur  in  the  heart  and  other  disabilities.  Mr. 
Beesley  reached  camp  late  on  a  Saturday  and  wan> 
dered  down  a  tented  street,  unknowing  and  unknown. 

As  he  approached  the  picket  line  where  the  horses 
stood  in  two  rows,  facing  each  other,  some  old  feud 
broke  out  among  them,  and  they  began  to  squeal 
and  yell,  bite  and  rear,  buck  and  lash  with  blood 
curdling  ferocity. 

A  few  troopers  and  the  stable  sergeant  ran  in 
among  them  like  policemen  plunging  into  a  riot. 
They  quelled  the  fracas  without  casualties,  but  their 
language  was  such  that  the  Reverend  Cuthbert 
melted  away  from  the  neighborhood  as  softly  as  the 
last  snow  of  spring. 

In  the  shelter  of  his  tent  he  considered  his  situa- 


"MOMMA" 

tion  with  anxiety.  If  he  were  to  justify  his  existence 
at  all  he  must  extirpate  such  customs  of  speech. 
And  yet  the  task  might  be  unpleasant  and  its  suc 
cess  doubtful. 

If  he  could  have  come  to  his  highly  secular  duty 
more  gradually,  it  would  have  been  easier  for  him. 
If  he  had  accompanied  a  wagon  train  along  a  sandy, 
hilly  hike,  and  heard  the  teamsters  explaining  their 
wishes  to  their  mules,  he  might  then  have  retreated 
to  the  cavalry  as  to  a  refuge,  and  found  it  chaste  by 
contrast. 

In  the  cool  twilight  of  his  tent  the  Reverend  Cuth- 
bert  conferred  with  himself,  his  conscience,  and  his 
discretion,  and  resolved  to  defer  his  counter-propa 
ganda  against  casual  blasphemy  till  he  knew  his 
parishioners  better. 

The  next  morning  was  a  Sunday  and  he  assisted 
the  departing  chaplain  in  holding  a  service  on  the 
hillside.  The  air  was  balmy,  the  sky  an  azure  canopy, 
and  the  vision  of  the  soldiers  standing  bareheaded,  or 
kneeling  on  the  grass,  filled  him  with  grace  and  with 
such  apostolic  ecstasy  that  the  lake  before  the  camp 
might  have  been  the  Galilean  sea. 

Even  the  picket  line  was  at  peace.  The  horses 
dreamed  or  meditated  their  Sabbath  hay  in  all 
docility. 

Late  that  afternoon  there  was  a  parade  before  a 
multitude  of  visitors.  The  spectacle  was  superb. 
Old  Doctor  Chichester  rode  with  the  staff  for  the 
last  time,  and  the  staff  went  by  the  reviewing  officer 
like  a  row  of  great  toy  horsemen  all  cut  out  of  one 
block.  The  band  played,  the  silken  standards 
purled,  the  guidons  snapped,  and  the  horses  and 
men  were  a  pride  to  behold. 

194 


YELLOW  CORDS 

The  Reverend  Lieutenant  Beesley  was  glad  to  be 
alive,  and  he  told  himself  that  a  chaplaincy  in  the 
cavalry  of  a  nation  making  ready  for  a  holy  war 
against  cruel  infamy  was  the  priestliest  of  offices. 

The  next  day  the  regiment  entrained  for  the  con 
centration  camp.  He  met  his  men  in  the  crowded 
cars.  It  was  Monday,  and  he  did  not  have  to  work 
or  even  to  feel  like  a  preacher.  He  took  immense 
delight  in  the  hilarious  good  comradeship  of  his  flock. 

For  several  days  they  rode,  and  the  train  rocked 
with  laughter,  song,  and  such  youthful  pranks  as 
while  away  such  voyages.  The  officers  were  fine  fel 
lows  and  their  technical  talk  was  fascinating. 

They  told  what  they  would  do  when  they  got 
abroad.  They  ridiculed  the  theory  that  cavalry  was 
out  of  date. 

Colonel  McNair,  a  major  in  the  Regular  Army, 
had  been  assigned  to  command  this  Guard  regiment, 
and  he  believed  that  a  man  was  never  quite  a  man 
unless  he  had  a  horse  between  his  knees.  To  a 
throng  gathered  about  his  section  in  the  old  sleeping 
car,  he  stormed: 

"Give  me  an  automatic  pistol  and  a  gang  of  boys 
with  real  rifles  on  the  rings,  boys  who  can  fight  on 
their  feet  or  on  their  bellies  as  well  as  in  the  saddle, 
and  can  travel  light  and  forage  on  the  country  and 
— well,  all  I've  got  to  say  is,  if  we'd  been  over  there 
in  1914  those  Uhlans  would  have  worn  their  death's 
heads  pointing  for  home,  damn  'em  all  to — the  place 
Mr.  Beesley  knows  more  about  than  we  do." 

That  sort  of  profanity  did  not  displease  Mr.  Bees- 
ley.  In  fact,  it  would  have  been  insubordinate  to  be 
displeased  at  anything  his  commanding  officer  said. 
It  thrilled  him  to  hear  such  things  thus  emphasized, 

IPS 


"MOMMA" 

and  he  saw  himself  on  his  way  to  Berlin.  The 
racket  of  the  wheels  on  the  rail  had  the  sound  of 
Uncle  Sam's  horseshoes  going  clickety-click  up  the 
Unter  den  Linden.  He  could  almost  see  the  palsied 
Kaiser  peering  out  of  a  palace  window,  his  mouth 
an  "Oh"  of  awe  between  his  drooping  mustaches. 

The  retiring  chaplain,  Doctor  Chichester,  had 
owned  his  own  horse,  and  had  taken  it  home  with 
him.  Mr.  Beesley  was  promised  a  new  mount  at 
the  new  camp.  Through  a  characteristic  mix-up  in 
train  management  the  regiment  was  separated  from 
its  horses,  and  preceded  them  to  camp  by  two  days. 
The  cavalrymen  were  loud  and  blue  in  their  disgust. 
But  there  were  new  horses  for  the  new  officers,  horses 
from  the  remount  station,  most  of  them  raw,  drafted 
horses,  civilian  nags  without  military  ambition  or 
training,  four-footed  rookies  that  knew  not  the  troop 
drill  and  were  afraid  of  a  bugle. 

Stable-Sergeant  O'Bannon  told  the  chaplain,  with 
as  much  deference  as  an  O'Bannon  could  feel  for  a 
Protestant,  that  he  could  have  his  pick  of  the  string. 
The  chaplain  was  not  long  in  selecting  the  best-look 
ing  mount  of  the  lot.  He  was  a  bit  ashamed  of  his 
selfishness,  but  he  felt  that  he  owed  it  to  his  cloth. 

"I  think  I'll  take  that  one,  Sergeant,  if  you  don't 
mind,"  said  the  chaplain. 

Sergeant  O'Bannon  recommended  a  much  bigger 
one,  an  old  throop  harse  and  an  ilegant  rider.  But 
the  chaplain  was  afraid  of  such  a  lofty  steed.  He 
dreaded  to  fall  so  far.  Besides,  he  had  not  yet 
learned  that  an  old  officer  always  obeys  his  sergeant ; 
and  he  was  sweetly  stubborn. 

"I'll  take  that  one,  please,"  he  repeated.  "What's 
his  name?" 

196 


YELLOW  CORDS 

"Moyna,  sor,"  said  the  sergeant. 

"But  Moyna  is  a — a — er — " 

"So  she  is,  sor,"  said  O'Bannon.  He  pushed  his 
way  between  Moyna  and  the  adjoining  horse,  un 
fastened  the  halter  from  the  picket  rope,  and  backed 
Moyna  out.  He  bridled  her  and  flung  a  saddle  across 
her  back,  and  cinched  it  till  she  grunted. 

But  she  made  no  protest  and  seemed  to  be  rather 
amused  at  the  game.  She  rubbed  her  muzzle  against 
him  and  arched  her  neck  and  nibbled  him  with  her  lips. 

"He's  a  nice  mare,"  said  the  chaplain,  "and  very 
affectionate,  isn't  he-she?" 

"Yissor,"  said  O'Bannon.  "But  I  misdoubt  her 
favryte  forage  is  loomps  of  candy  from  the  hand  of 
a  gerl." 

Moyna  was  a  beauty  and  seemed  to  know  it.  She 
was  a  flirt  and  a  humorist.  She  had  an  eye  of 
burnt  sugar,  a  caramel  eye;  and  her  neck  was  as 
glossy  as  if  it  were  covered  with  the  shining  integu 
ment  they  make  silk  hats  of. 

The  sergeant  held  her  head  while  the  chaplain 
mounted.  Moyna  made  no  objection  to  his  weight. 
She  turned  round  and  looked  at  him,  and  nibbled  at 
the  boot  of  the  stirrup. 

But  when  he  gathered  her  and  signaled  her  to  go 
forward  she  did  not  seem  to  understand  the  language 
of  knee  and  heel.  , 

"She's  not  bridlewise,  I'm  afraid,"  said  the  chap 
lain,  patiently. 

"She's  too  dom  wise,"  said  O'Bannon.  As  long 
as  O'Bannon  led  her  or  pushed  on  her  side  she  went 
where  she  was  steered,  but  there  was  small  satis 
faction  in  that,  and  the  chaplain  ordered  the  sergeant 
to  give  her  her  head  and  stand  off. 

197 


"MOMMA" 

O'Bannon  gave  her  her  head  and  stood  off,  and 
Moyna  pirouetted  awhile.  Then  it  struck  her  as  a 
quaint  and  interesting  whimsy  to  glide  along  the 
picket  line  and  bunt  the  dock  of  every  horse  that 
stood  there. 

This  caused  a  deal  of  commotion  among  the  other 
horses,  and  still  more  in  the  chaplain's  bosom.  He 
had  anxious  visions  of  his  right  leg  being  kicked 
through  Moyna's  ribs  by  any  or  all  of  the  horses  as 
they  surged  forward  and  back. 

But  he  could  not  dissuade  her  from  completing 
the  course.  When  she  had  tagged  every  tail  in  the 
row  she  was  satisfied,  and  trotted  away  in  perfect 
obedience. 

The  chaplain  made  a  few  turns  about  the  camp, 
and  won  most  of  the  arguments  with  Moyna.  But 
he  lost  enough  to  make  him  stubborn,  and  when  he 
restored  her  to  O'Bannon  and  O'Bannon  suggested 
that  he  had  better  reconsider  his  choice,  the  chaplain 
said,  with  grimness: 

"No!  I'm  going  to  conquer  that  da — that  damsel 
or  die." 

He  was  shocked  to  realize  how  near  he  had  come 
to  filling  the  gap  with  the  colonel's  favorite  word. 

There  were  mounts  enough  for  the  field  and  staff, 
but  none  for  the  men,  and  when  the  commanding 
officer  of  the  division  expressed  a  wish  to  review  the 
newly  arrived  regiment,  its  grumbling  members 
paraded  afoot. 

Remembering  the  sturdy  picture  the  former  chap 
lain  had  made,  the  Reverend  Cuthbert  resolved  to 
make  a  sturdier.  Moyna  was  his  charger  and  she 
was  most  demure  till  she  reached  the  parade  ground. 
Then  she  seemed  to  think  she  was  expected  to  do  a 

198 


YELLOW  CORDS 

pas  seul.  In  entire  independence  of  the  orders  by 
voice  or  bugle  she  curveted  and  caracoled  and  trav 
eled  where  she  would.  It  was  highly  amusing  to  the 
soldiers,  but  miserably  humiliating  to  the  chaplain. 
The  colonel  shouted  at  him,  and  he  moaned  to  him 
self,  "Tell  that  stuff  to  the  horse." 

When  the  line  swung  into  column  for  the  march 
past,  and  the  major  general  and  his  staff  stood  like 
bronze  equestrian  statuary,  waiting  for  the  colonel 
and  his  staff  to  ride  by,  Moyna  played  the  prima 
donna  all  by  herself. 

She  executed  a  perfect  side  step  in  spite  of  the 
chaplain's  frantic  signals  for  a  forward  march.  She 
sidled  awhile,  then  backed  and  whirled.  The  chap 
lain  tugged  and  kicked,  but  he  was  as  helpless  as  a 
skipper  on  a  rudderless,  anchorless  sloop. 

The  staff  went  on  without  the  chaplain,  while 
Moyna  drifted  backward  through  three  platoons  of 
pedestrian  cavalry.  The  lines  opened  out  to  let  her 
pass,  but  one  rude  fellow,  to  avoid  being  stepped  on, 
handed  her  a  mighty  smack  on  the  rump  and  told 
her: 

"Git  the  hell  over,  you !" 

The  chaplain  did  not  say  the  traditional  "Thank 
you,"  but  he  looked  an  absolution,  though  he  heard 
the  speaker's  elbow  neighbor  rebuke  him  with  a 
gruff: 

"You  poor  nut,  that's  the  chaplain."  He  heard 
the  offending  nut  exclaim,  "O  my  Gawd!" 

And  then  they  marched  on  while  he  floated  shame 
fully  to  the  rear. 

The  chaplain  and  Moyna  never  did  get  reviewed 
by  that  general.  He  sailed  away  to  France  and  she 
was  remoted  to  the  picket  line. 

199 


"MOMMA" 

The  chaplain  had  about  resolved  that  he  would 
ride  thenceforward  in  the  ambulance  or  resign  and 
go  home,  or  at  least  demand  a  transfer  to  a  motor 
cycle  or  a  motor-truck  company.  But  the  next  day 
the  regimental  horses  arrived. 

It  was  a  blessed  sight  to  see  the  detraining  of  them 
and  the  welcome  they  gave  their  masters  and  got 
in  return.  Worried  and  jostled  by  the  long  imprison 
ment  and  the  endless  hurry  through  strange  land 
scapes,  the  whinnying  steeds  rejoiced  to  escape  to  the 
open  air.  They  were  in  a  frolic  mood.  They  were 
proud  to  be  soldiers  and  they  loved  the  discipline 
and  the  display  of  their  own  learning. 

The  regiment  rode  into  camp  bareback  with  only 
the  halters  on.  The  horses  were  re-established  on  the 
picket  line,  familiar  head  opposite  familiar  head. 
The  climate  was  strange  and  the  odor  of  the  illiterate 
horses  from  the  remount  station  was  offensive,  but 
it  was  good  to  be  at  home  on  the  line  again. 

The  drills  were  inspiring,  too,  to  footsore  men  and 
their  eager  chargers.  The  bugle  calls  spoke  a  be 
loved  language  to  their  hungry  ears,  and  they  wheeled 
into  line  and  column  of  platoons  or  squads  or  half 
squads  or  files,  ployed  and  deployed,  at  the  walk, 
the  trot,  or  the  gallop,  as  happy  as  children  playing 
at  war. 

A  bit  of  good  luck  fell  to  the  doleful  chaplain,  for 
he  fell  heir  to  the  horse  of  an  officer  suddenly  trans 
ferred  to  another  duty.  This  horse  was  named 
Texas,  in  honor  of  the  state  that  he  honored.  He 
was  a  mighty  engine  with  a  gentle  soul. 

The  chaplain  swarmed  up  into  the  lofty  saddle 
with  difficulty,  but  once  aboard  he  felt  assured  that 
Texas  had  been  built  to  order  for  him  and  he  for 

200 


YELLOW  CORDS 

Texas.     His  native  rhythm  and  the  chaplain's  were 
as  melody  and  accompaniment. 

He  had  a  mouth  so  tender — Texas  had — that  a 
twitch  of  the  little  finger  reined  him  in,  a  thought  of 
relaxation  let  him  out.  He  was  such  a  scholar  in  the 
lore  of  heel  and  knee  that  he  might  have  had  electric 
signal  buttons  on  his  ribs.  He  turned  on  the  fore 
hand  or  the  haunches,  he  backed  or  stood,  he  exe 
cuted  the  two  tracks  or  the  shoulder-in  with  uncanny 
divination.  He  was  a  wrist-and-heel  reader.  He 
made  a  lilt  of  the  square  trot  and  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  the  chaplain  posted  without  anxiety  or  bumps. 
He  rose  and  sat  as  cozily  as  at  a  prayer  meeting  and 
found  the  saddle  always  just  where  he  wanted  it. 

He  ventured  timorously  into  the  roads,  and  Texas 
asked  only  a  little  release  of  rein  to  become  a  tornado 
of  speed.  He  charged  the  horizon  with  shoes  of  fire, 
but  with  the  smoothness  of  a  heavenly  chariot.  A 
little  leaning  back  and  a  slight  closing  of  the  scissors 
of  the  thighs,  and  he  reduced  his  velocity  without  a 
struggle.  He  came  down  to  a  dog  trot,  a  walk,  a 
half  halt,  a  dead  stop. 

Texas  carried  out  of  camp  a  timid  debutant  on 
horseback.  He  brought  home  a  confirmed  centaur. 
He  knew  the  bugle  better  than  the  chaplain  did. 

He  "shook  hands"  for  apples  or  carrots  or  just 
for  sociability.  He  fluttered  his  nostrils  in  a  wel 
coming  whir  whenever  the  chaplain  came  near. 
And  Lieutenant  Cuthbert  came  near  often,  for  he 
envied  the  man  who  took  care  of  Texas.  He  wanted 
to  be  a  hostler,  too,  and  rub  down  the  steaming  pelt 
with  a  wisp,  and  hold  the  pail  while  Texas  pumped  it 
dry,  and  look  to  his  bedding  and  the  fitting  of  his 
saddle  blanket  to  the  nicety  of  a  hair. 
14  201 


"MOMMA" 

The  troopers  grumbled  at  their  endless  tasks ;  they 
cursed  the  call  to  stables;  the  necessity  of  polishing 
off  the  horses  as  if  they  were  mahogany;  the  count 
less  rules  for  keeping  their  patients  well  and  clean 
and  warm  and  dry,  and  watered  just  enough,  and 
shampooed,  barbered,  and  chiropodized. 

But  they  loved  what  they  berated  and  they  were 
tender,  for  all  their  profanity.  A  man  who  mistreated 
a  horse  had  O'Bannon  to  reckon  with  and  the  con 
tempt  of  his  fellow  troopers. 

The  colonel  was  merciless  to  the  man  who  was  not 
merciful  to  his  beast.  The  chaplain  went  to  school 
and  solaced  his  loneliness  with  the  companionship 
of  Texas. 

The  horse  taught  him  warriorship,  6lan,  and  the 
pride  of  the  tempest.  They  went  out  together  and 
practiced  jumping  ditches,  fences,  and  walls,  charg 
ing  embankments,  tobogganing  declivities,  and  in 
dulged  in  bursts  of  speed  with  abrupt  stops. 

And  one  night  the  chaplain  dreamed  that  he  went 
into  battle  with  his  regiment  and  won  the  cavalry 
man's  prayer  that  death  shall  come  to  him  and  his 
horse  in  the  glorious  crisis  of  a  victorious  charge  just 
as  the  shattered  enemy  breaks  and  flees  from  his 
abandoned  guns. 

So  in  the  chaplain's  dream  he  rode  in  among  the 
panic-smitten  Huns  with  an  apocalyptic  fury,  and 
there  a  shell  broke  itself  and  him  and  his  charger  to 
pieces  and  released  his  soul.  So  fiercely  he  had 
ridden  that  his  ghost  and  the  ghost  of  his  charger 
rode  right  on  through  the  dark  valley  and  up  a  great 
cliff,  and  on  across  a  meadow  of  sky,  where  the  clouds 
were  but  fences  and  walls. 

Texas  swept  on  with  him  into  the  gate  of  the 

202 


YELLOW  CORDS 

golden  city  and  down  the  golden  streets  to  the  Great 
Headquarters. 

And  there  the  chaplain  reined  him  in  so  sharply 
that  his  hind  feet  threw  out  sparks  as  they  slid  along 
the  porphyry  before  the  throne. 

A  moment  he  waited  till  Texas  was  erect  again, 
and  then  he  saluted.  The  adjutant  angel  returned 
the  salute,  and  directed : 

"Take  your  post,  sir!" 

The  chaplain  was  almost  sorry  to  wake  and  realize 
that  the  brazen  music  he  heard  was  not  from  the 
trumpets  of  heaven,  but  from  the  cheeks  of  the  un 
shaven  bugler  yawning  reveille. 

He  was  sorrier  still  when  officers'  call  summoned 
him  and  the  others  to  the  colonel's  tent  to  hear  the 
ghastly  news  that  the  glorious  Ninety-fifth  was  no 
more.  The  stroke  of  somebody's  pen  had  ordered 
its  disintegration  into  two  battalions  of  machine 
gunners. 

Colonel  McNair  tried  to  give  the  obedience  he  had 
exacted.  He  swallowed  his  own  old  prophecies  of 
what  the  cavalry  would  do  to  the  Teutons  and  ex 
plained  that  cavalry  was  of  no  use  in  Europe. 

He  choked  as  he  ate  his  words  and  made  a  pitiful 
failure  of  his  effort  to  conceal  his  broken  heart  under 
a  screen  of  severity. 

His  officers  wavered  under  the  blow,  and,  when 
they  were  dismissed,  wandered  away  to  exchange 
insubordinate  protests. 

They  assembled  their  men  and  tried  to  imitate  the 
colonel,  tried  to  pretend  that  they  were  bearers  of 
glad  tidings,  great  news  of  promotion  from  the  con 
temptible  estate  of  cavalrymen  to  the  magnificent 
rank  of  machine-gun  pumpers. 

203 


"MOMMA" 

The  men  made  no  pretense.  They  had  no  com 
missions  to  lose.  If  they  went  to  the  guardhouse, 
so  much  the  better.  They  raved  and  roared  and 
kicked  the  ground,  and  their  profanity  attained  a 
crudity  the  chaplain  had  never  imagined  possible. 

Colonel  McNair  let  them  rage,  for  he  was  to  be 
called  elsewhere.  It  would  be  the  new  commander's 
business  to  whip  them  into  line. 

The  chaplain  remained  with  the  regiment  and  tried 
to  welcome  the  new  officers.  After  all,  they  were  not 
to  blame,  but  they  had  surly  treatment  from  the 
men.  There  were  open  threats  of  sabotage.  Per 
haps  it  was  fortunate  that  the  guns  were  late  in 
arriving.  They  might  not  have  survived  the  first 
reception. 

The  horses,  not  knowing  what  had  happened,  ex 
cept  that  the  bugles  summoned  them  to  the  field  no 
more,  wondered  at  the  affectionate  tenderness  of 
their  idle  riders. 

Crowds  stood  about  the  picket  lines  and  leaned  on 
the  horses'  backs  and  stroked  their  glossy  pelts, 
slapped  them,  and  cursed  them  lovingly,  and  gave 
them  every  care  but  exercise. 

And  then  one  loathsome  morning  a  gang  of  stran 
gers  from  the  remount  station,  miles  away,  appeared 
to  carry  off  the  horses  of  the  Ninety-fifth.  The 
chaplain  understood,  and  shared  the  helpless  agony 
of  the  rough  soldiers,  wanting  to  cry  and  not  daring 
to,  wanting  to  fight  and  not  daring  to. 

They  watched  in  sickly  groups  the  brisk  work  of 
the  remount  pirates,  to  whom  these  partners  of 
glory  were  but  a  herd  of  cattle.  They  stripped  the 
picket  line  of  their  halter  ropes;  each  man  mounted 
one  horse  and  led  a  bunch  of  others. 

204 


YELLOW  CORDS 

And  the  poor  steeds,  thinking  they  were  going  out 
to  water  or  to  some  new  battle  drill  in  dismounted 
formation,  trotted  off  as  meekly  as  lambs  to  the 
slaughter. 

The  ex-cavalrymen  of  the  Ninety-fifth  ran  down 
to  the  roadside  and  poured  out  their  wrath  at  the 
thieves  of  their  flying-maned  friends. 

It  was  useless  to  try  to  lock  their  hearts  after  their 
horses  were  stolen.  They  moped  about  forlorn,  their 
occupations  gone.  Their  ears  ached  for  the  stable 
call,  their  arms  for  the  pitchfork,  and  their  palms 
for  the  currycomb. 

But  their  wishes  were  not  their  horses  and  the 
beggars  could  not  ride. 

To  add  insult  to  injury,  they  had  to  give  up 
their  insignia  as  cavalrymen — their  buttons  with  the 
crossed  sabers,  and  their  yellow  hat  cords.  If  they 
had  changed  to  the  crossed  cannon  of  artillery  and  the 
scarlet  cords,  it  might  not  have  been  so  bad.  They 
could  still  have  gone  to  battle  riding  on  caissons  or 
on  the  horses  that  drew  the  guns. 

But  they  were  only  footmen  now,  with  a  pair  of 
muskets  on  their  collar  buttons  and  on  their  hats 
cords  of  baby  blue.  They  must  ride  Shanks'  mares, 
push  armored  baby  carriages  about  the  rough  ground, 
and  groom  popguns  instead  of  horses.  They  would 
be  plumbers  and  not  soldiers.  A  number  of  the 
officers  began  to  pull  wires  for  a  transfer  to  the 
Aviation  service.  They  must  ride  something.  Bet 
ter  to  fly  and  fall  than  creep  and  crawl. 

But  for  the  enlisted  men  there  was  no  escape. 
They  were  told  that  the  day  would  come  when  they 
would  thrill  with  the  power  of  spraying  death  from 
their  chattering  machines,  lifting  the  muzzles  from 

205 


"MOMMA" 

some  nest  of  hidden  emplacement,  and  scything  the 
enemy  down  in  sheaves  of  terrible  harvest. 

But  as  it  had  taken  a  long  and  painful  time  to 
make  them  good  cavalrymen,  so  it  would  take  a  long 
and  painful  while  to  unmake  them. 

They  felt  betrayed  and  shamed  by  an  ungrateful 
republic,  so  shamed,  indeed,  that  when  they  went 
home  on  furlough  they  took  off  the  despised  blue 
cords  and  circled  their  hats  in  yellow  till  they  came 
back  again  to  camp. 

The  chaplain  tried  to  comfort  his  flock  and  teach 
them  patriotic  meekness,  but  his  counsels  were  half 
hearted.  And  when  he  heard  them  swearing  every 
where  and  all  the  time,  his  only  sincere  regret  was 
at  the  hopeless  inadequacy  of  their  vocabularies. 

It  is  unwise  and  unsafe  for  men  to  try  to  interpret 
the  souls  of  animals  in  terms  of  their  own. 

What  the  exact  reasons  were  for  the  extraordinary 
behavior  of  the  horses  of  the  Ninety-fifth  can  never 
be  found  out.  The  fact  of  the  act  is  all  there  is  to  tell. 

The  horses  of  the  regiment  were  miserably  dis 
content  with  their  new  conditions.  Among  the  herds 
of  animals  bought  in  all  parts  of  the  country  by  all 
sorts  of  buyers  under  all  sorts  of  inspection  they 
were  mustered  in  camps  like  the  draft  of  soldiers. 
The  officers  were  too  driven  to  see  or  correct  the 
derelictions  of  such  men  as  could  be  picked  up. 

The  horses  of  the  Ninety-fifth  were  used  to  change 
of  residence,  but  they  could  not  understand  the 
change  of  business.  Strange  persons  were  caring 
for  them  as  little  as  possible  and  cursing  them  in 
unfamiliar  and  unfriendly  tones. 

The  horses  had  been  brought  up  in  the  good  old 
cavalry  religion: 

206 


YELLOW  CORDS 

"After  a  horse  is  assigned  his  rider  will  not  ex 
change  him  nor  allow  him  to  be  used  by  any  other 
person  without  permission." 

This  canon  was  ruthlessly  violated.  Riders  of 
every  sort  tried  these  horses,  exercised  them,  herded 
them  to  water,  but  never  to  drill. 

The  good  book  also  said  that  the  trainers  of  re 
mounts  "should  be  chosen  for  their  love  of  horses 
and  their  patience  and  gentleness." 

The  Ninety-fifth's  had  fallen  among  the  heathen, 
indeed.  They  were  badly  bitted,  their  saddle  blan 
kets  put  on  against  the  hair;  they  were  cinched  too- 
tight;  sent  to  bed  unkempt  in  unaired  bedding; 
hitched  at  once  after  heavy  work,  to  cool  in  haste 
and  die  at  leisure.  Often  they  were  left  unclothed 
in  icy  winds  and  unsheltered  in  keen  rains. 

So  they  were  left  one  night  of  tempest.  The 
stables  were  overthronged,  and  they  were  condemned 
to  the  open,  crowded  corral.  The  Ninety-fifth's  horses 
drew  together  in  a  companionship  of  familiarity  en 
deared  by  misery.  Whether  the  lightning  and  the 
barrage  of  thunder  frightened  them  or  inspired  them, 
somehow  the  impulse  to  rebellion  rose  among  them/ 

Texas  began  it,  perhaps.  He  began  to  lead  a  mob 
of  riotous  steeds  about  in  a  fierce  circle,  pressing 
against  the  fence  of  the  corral  here  and  there.  The 
deluges  of  rain  washed  the  ground  away  from  some 
of  the  posts,  and  at  last  over  they  went.  There  was 
a  gateway  now  to  liberty. 

But  the  less  resolute  were  afraid  of  their  freedom. 
The  lightning  flashes  disclosed  weird  scenes  and 
effaced  them  again.  The  world  was  dripping  with 
steel  chains  of  glistening  beads.  They  could  not 
imagine  what  to  do  with  their  opportunity. 

207 


"MOMMA" 

But  Texas  knew.  He  picked  his  way  across  the 
broken  timbers.  A  bold  horse  followed  him — another 
— others — all  the  Ninety-fifth's  old  veterans.  While 
the  stable  guards  slept  or  gambled  in  their  shelters 
the  prisoners  assembled. 

Texas  gave  the  command  and  they  fell  into  line 
on  the  parade  ground,  knowing  their  places  by  their 
neighbors,  butting  in,  and  nosing  out  their  stations 
in  ranks,  and  dressing  the  line. 

They  stood  awhile,  no  doubt,  swaying  and  champ 
ing  for  the  bugle  call.  Perhaps  some  high,  shrill 
clangor  of  thunder  gave  it.  They  broke  from  the 
right  into  column  of  squads,  and  trotted  off  into  the 
dark. 

Texas,  as  an  old  staff  horse,  had  been  used  to 
trotting  at  the  head  of  the  column.  He  took  the 
lead  now,  and  nearly  three  hundred  horses  followed 
him,  remembering  what  they  had  learned  and  obey 
ing  their  remembered  ghostly  riders. 

Down  the  road  they  pounded,  led  by  an  instinct 
of  direction,  roaring  across  the  stretches  of  highroad, 
slashing  through  the  bogs,  and  sending  up  sheets  of 
spray  from  the  deep  pools. 

A  few  belated  travelers,  pushing  through  the  storm 
and  hearing  that  terrestrial  thunder,  turned  quickly 
out  into  the  ditch  or  cowered  in  terror  and  watched 
the  long  defile  sweep  past,  thinking  themselves 
bewitched. 

Where  the  road  narrowed  through  some  ravine,  the 
column  closed  to  half  squad,  and  extended  again  as  the 
road  widened.  And  in  one  open  stretch  of  fenceless 
prairie,  as  the  tracks  showed  the  next  day,  the  column 
deployed  into  line.  They  had  charged,  then  rallied, 
formed  column  again,  and  pressed  on  once  more. 

208 


YELLOW  CORDS 

The  artillery  of  the  clouds  ceased  fire,  the  rain  fell 
no  more,  and  on  the  gloom  of  night  the  patterns  of 
the  dawn  were  woven  of  crimson  skeins.  But  the 
horses  of  the  Ninety-fifth  continued  their  march 
and  reconquered  the  miles  that  kept  them  from  home. 

They  were  not  yet  there  when  the  bugler  riddled 
the  slumbering  tents  with  the  hateful  racket  of 
reveille.  The  disconsolate  cavalrymen  wrenched 
themselves  from  slumber,  groped  for  their  clothes, 
buttoned  themselves  hastily  in,  and  formed  the 
seedy  lines  of  the  first  roll  call. 

They  had  no  horses  to  look  for  and  no  future  that 
they  desired. 

And  then  the  horses  came  back.  A  thunder  be 
yond  thunder  rose  and  roared.  The  roll  calls  were 
forgotten  in  the  excitement.  The  chaplain,  emerg 
ing  from  his  tent,  saw  Texas  come  proudly  up  the 
main  street,  followed  by  the  riderless,  saddleless, 
bridleless  multitude. 

They  went  through  the  camp  in  perfect  school, 
undisturbed  by  the  shrieks  of  welcome  that  broke 
from  the  men.  The  horses  proceeded  to  the  picket 
line  and  there  broke  ranks,  fell  into  place,  kicked  and 
shunted  aside  the  few  sorry  animals  they  found 
there,  and  looked  for  the  fodder  they  expected. 

Now  they  were  charged  in  turn  by  their  old  riders. 
The  men  came  leaping,  shouting,  hurling  their  hats 
in  air. 

They  ran  to  their  horses,  each  man  to  his  own,  and 
wrapped  his  arm  about  the  great  neck,  and  rubbed 
noses  with  the  lost  that  was  found  again. 

Many  a  man  wept  foolish  tears  and  tried  to  mask 
his  shame  by  an  excess  of  profanity.  All  ran  for 
fodder,  tore  bales  of  hay  to  shreds,  robbed  stores  of 

209 


"MOMMA" 

oats,  stole  from  the  very  kitchens,  and  made  what 
feast  they  could  for  the  returned  prodigals. 

The  chaplain  did  not  swear  at  Texas,  but  he  lav 
ished  caresses  on  him  and  gave  him  his  own  break 
fast. 

The  remount  men  reached  the  camp  of  the  Ninety- 
fifth  soon  after.  The  noise  of  the  stampede  had 
alarmed  the  guards.  They  had  followed  the  tracks 
by  the  flashes  of  lightning.  The  remount  men  were 
ugly  mad.  They  had  lost  their  sleep,  ridden  long 
and  hard  through  the  storm.  They  claimed  the 
horses  without  the  grace  of  a  regret. 

They  were  made  as  welcome  as  the  Huns  would 
have  been.  They  would  never  come  nearer  lynch 
ing  and  live  than  they  came  then.  Bad  language 
abounded,  and  there  were  numberless  gory  fist  fights. 

The  chaplain  realized  that  the  homecoming  was 
too  beautiful  to  be  in  this  world  of  war  and  sorrows. 
He  parted  what  fighters  he  could  and  pleaded  his 
men  into  a  semblance  of  discipline.  They  fell  back 
and  surrendered.  As  the  chaplain  was  heard  to  say 
later,  "If  the  remount  men  had  been  gentlemen  of 
tact  they  would  probably  not  have  been  remount 
men." 

It  was  not  an  unprejudiced  judgment,  but,  at  any 
rate,  they  felt  triumphant  over  the  infantrymen-in- 
spite-of-themselves  and  seemed  to  feel  called  upon 
to  teach  the  runaway  horses  a  lesson. 

A  few  of  the  poor  beasts  yielded  without  debate 
and  consented  to  return  to  exile.  But  others  fought 
viciously  against  another  hateful  banishment  from 
the  recovered  home. 

With  these  the  remount  orderlies  dealt  brutally, 
and  the  chaplain  had  all  he  could  do  to  restrain  his 

210 


YELLOW  CORDS 

men  from  murder.  He  kept  them  in  hand,  begging 
them  to  remember  that  they  were  soldiers;  that 
obedience  was  their  duty  and  patience  their  merit. 

He  even  dared  at  last  to  beg  and  implore  them  to 
quit  themselves  like  men  and  not  even  curse.  They 
obeyed  him,  too,  and  stood  the  test  like  martyrs. 
The  chaplain  was  a  little  proud  of  his  power  over 
them. 

And  then  a  snarling  thug  seized  Texas  by  the 
halter,  and,  when  the  horse  refused  to  go,  jerked  his 
head  and  beat  him  in  the  face  with  his  fist,  and, 
failing  still  to  master  him,  dared  to  kick  him  in  the 
ribs  and  belly. 

Then  the  Rev.  Cuthbert  Beesley,  with  a  kind  of 
whinny  of  pity  for  his  horse,  and  with  a  wild  neigh  of 
inarticulate  wrath,  jumped  on  that  wretch,  smote 
him  in  the  face,  and  knocked  him  into  the  muck, 
and  stood  over  him,  roaring: 

"You'll  never  kick  my  horse  again,  you  -- 


The  remount  man  begged  for  mercy  and  was  per 
mitted  to  live,  and  he  and  his  fellows  completed  their 
odious  task  with  all  available  decorum. 

The  men  of  the  Ninety  -fifth  watched  their  horses 
go  again  in  a  funereal  silence.  None  of  them  had 
such  a  load  of  regret  as  the  chaplain.  He  had  re 
morse  to  bear  as  well,  and  he  quivered  with  shame 
at  what  he  had  done  and  what  language  he  had  used. 

But  of  all  the  wise  and  praiseworthy  sayings  he 
uttered  in  his  otherwise  blameless  career,  that  speech 
of  his  was  the  one  the  regiment  quoted  oftenest  and 
loved  the  best.  They  called  him  the  Reverend  Cuss- 
bert,  and  meant  it  as  a  title  of  honor. 

And  finally,  one  Sunday  morning,  the  chaplain 

211 


"MOMMA" 

took  for  his  text,  "Ask  and  it  shall  be  given  unto 
you."  His  real  theme  was  a  clipping  from  a  news 
paper,  handed  to  him  by  one  of  the  officers:  "Acting 
under  the  recommendations  of  General  Pershing,  the 
War  Department  has  ordered  the  organization  of 
five  more  regiments  of  cavalry,  in  addition  to  the 
complete  division  of  cavalry  already  under  way." 

The  chaplain  used  it  as  a  proof  that  prayers  are 
answered. 

That  was  the  first  sermon  of  the  Reverend  Cuss- 
bert's  that  had  ever  been  received  with  three  cheers 
and  a  tiger. 


VIII 
THE  SPLIT 


WHAT  Edna  did  to  the  war  is  not  worth  men 
tioning,  but  what  the  war  did  to  Edna — ! 

Among  the  countless  things  that  have  been  written 
about  the  world  conflict  there  seems  to  have  been 
no  record  whatsoever  of  the  most  excruciating  of 
all  the  torments  to  which  the  women  who  stayed  at 
home  were  subjected.  Of  course,  every  devoted  wife 
or  sweetheart  endured  agonies  of  anxiety,  each  for 
her  hero  in  the  dangers  of  battle;  and  she  endured 
it  with  a  fortitude  that  can  never  be  sufficiently 
celebrated.  But  there  was  a  further  and  perhaps 
more  intolerable  test  of  mettle,  and  that  was  the 
thought  of  the  gantlet  her  hero  ran  among  the 
women  at  large  in  France. 

The  more  the  women  who  went  along  were  heralded 
as  angels  the  harder  it  was  for  the  women  who 
stayed  at  home  to  stand  it;  for  Heaven  helps  men  who 
stray  among  devils,  but  who  under  the  sun  is  to  help 
the  man  who  wanders  among  angels? 

The  worst  of  it  was  that  the  government  forgot 
the  solid  Puritanical  standards  which,  we  are  as 
sured,  made  America  what  it  is  to-day,  or,  at  least, 
what  it  ought  to  be  to-day.  The  government  issued 
an  order  forbidding  wives  and  sisters  of  persons  in 

213 


"MOMMA" 

the  military  service  to  go  to  war  with  their  men-folk. 
But  it  permitted  all  sorts  of  other  women  to  go! — 
even  actresses!!  It  actually  encouraged  actresses  to 
go  to  France! — to  amuse  the  men!!  It  is  a  wonder 
that  we  were  allowed  to  win  the  war  at  all. 

Later,  the  ungodly  government,  as  if  to  drive  the 
wives  to  rebellion,  modified  its  first  order  so  as  to 
permit  sisters  to  go  along.  Of  course,  the  govern 
ment  knew  sisters.  It  knew  that  they  would  never 
bother  their  own  brothers.  They  never  did  at  home ; 
why  should  they  in  France? 

The  women  of  Carthage  were  fairly  distraught. 
Actresses  are  unknown  in  Carthage  except  by  repu 
tation,  but  such  a  reputation!  After  the  National 
Guard  company  and  the  volunteers  and  the  draft 
men  had  been  taken  away,  leaving  hardly  an  able- 
bodied  youth  in  town,  a  number  of  women  went  over, 
women  unrelated  to  any  of  the  men. 

They  became  at  once  the  subjects  of  intense  at 
tention.  Edna  Eby  alone  was  thought  of  as  a  fit 
companion  for  young  males  going  into  the  solemni 
ties  of  battle,  for  Edna  was  as  nice  and  solemn  a 
young  woman  as  Carthage  ever  produced. 

Downright  indignation,  however,  was  expressed 
at  the  recklessness  of  the  government  in  subjecting 
the  poor  soldiers  to  the  influence  of  Miss  Belle  Cum 
bers,  who  sang  soprano  in  one  of  the  choirs.  Every 
body  knows  how  dangerous  choir  singers  are. 

Mrs.  Belle  Gaddy  said  that  she  went  because  her 
husband  was  too  nearsighted  to  pass  the  examina 
tions  and  somebody  had  to  represent  her  family. 
It  seemed  only  natural  that  Mrs.  Hattie  Shingle 
should  go,  because  she  was  a  widow  and  an  elocution 
teacher,  and  would  be  of  great  value  in  stimulating 

214 


THE  SPLIT 

the  soldiers  to  deeds  of  valor  by  reciting  some  of  her 
best  pieces. 

The  only  woman  who  escaped  open  criticism  was 
Edna  Eby.  She  was  plain  and  tame  and  exceedingly 
pious.  It  was  generally  admitted  that  she  said  bet 
ter  prayers  than  anybody  else  in  her  church  on 
Wednesday  nights.  She  would  lend  a  much-needed 
element  of  sanctity  to  the  battlefields. 

While  the  left-at-homes  were  dissecting  the  went- 
alongs,  the  went-alongs  were  dissecting  new  forms 
of  life.  France,  at  any  time,  would  have  given 
Carthage  women  stuff  enough  for  comment,  but 
France  in  war,  with  all  the  laws  and  conventions  of 
God  and  man  forgotten  or  turned  topsy-turvy,  was 
matter  for  exclamation  indeed. 

All  the  women  had  promised  to  write  regularly, 
but  Edna  Eby,  as  usual,  was  the  only  one  who  kept 
her  promise.  Her  first  letter  went  to  her  mother; 
her  second  letter  to  her  pastor.  And  he  read  it  out 
loud  in  church,  which  gave  poor,  lonely  Mrs.  Eby 
the  greatest  pride  she  had  ever  known : 

DEAR  DOCTOR  SWANTON, — There  is  so  much  to  write  that  one 
hardly  knows  where  to  begin.  We  passed  through  the  "Dangers 
of  the  Deep"  without  accident,  thanks  to  the  all-watching  eyes 
of  Providence.  We  were  especially  grateful  for  this  mercy,  since 
just  before  our  arrival  a  hospital  ship  loaded  with  wounded  and 
nurses  was  torpedoed,  and  few  survived. 

Such  discrimanation  leads  one  to  believe  that  they  have  been 
spared  for  some  good  purpose,  and  I  hope  in  all  humilaty  to  be  of 
some  service  in  this  beknighted  land  where,  as  I  understand, 
there  are  hardly  more  than  one  or  two  Congregationalist  churches. 

We  arrived  at  Paris  on  the  Sabbath,  and  the  scenes  were 
shocking;  people  going  about  and  shops  open  as  if  on  a  week 
day.  It  was  especially  discouraging  to  see  persons  seated  right 
out  on  the  sidewalk  and  drinking.  Many  of  them,  alas,  wore 
the  American  uniform.  There  is  a  great  opening  here  for  a  local- 

215 


"MOMMA" 

option  movement  to  lead  the  way  for  prohibition.  I  hope  to  do 
something  in  my  humble  way  to  put  an  end  to  this  wicked  habit, 
at  least  in  our  own  army. 

Then,  after  the  war  is  over,  I  should  esteam  it  a  blessed  privi- 
lage  to  spread  the  glad  tidings  among  these  poor  people  who 
have  not  had  the  advantages  of  such  sermons  as  yours  and  such 
home  life  as  we  know  in  Carthage. 

I  have  not  been  assigned  to  duty  as  yet,  but  I  am  already 
selecting  hymns  which  will  have  the  best  effect  on  the  soldiers, 
and  I  hope  to  win  many  of  them  to  better  living  by  prayer  meet 
ings.  From  some  of  the  language  I  cannot  help  overhearing — 
I  refer  to  the  American  language,  for,  though  I  fortunately  cannot 
understand  what  the  French  and  English  soldiers  say,  I  am  con 
vinced  that  many  of  our  brave  men  are  just  aching  to  be  taught 
a  proper  reverance. 

There  was  more  of  the  same  tenor — or  soprano. 
The  army,  however,  was  too  much  for  poor  Edna. 

She  would  have  been  shocked  to  death  if  she  had 
not  soon  arrived  at  a  condition  of  spiritual  coma  in 
which  she  could  not  be  shocked  at  all.  But  she 
transmitted  shocks  to  Carthage  with  multiplied 
power. 

The  pastor  never  read  them  from  the  pulpit.  In 
fact,  she  did  not  write  to  him  again.  Her  mother 
brought  him  letters  from  Edna  to  her  and  asked  him 
what  in  Heaven's  name  was  to  be  done  about  the 
girl.  He  left  it  to  Heaven. 

The  Carthage  ladies  were  stationed  in  the  village 
of  Fargeton,  helping  to  conduct  a  large  Red  Triangle 
hut.  It  was  well  to  the  rear  of  the  battle  line  and 
most  of  the  customers  were  French  and  English  and 
Italian  soldiers.  Edna  had  not  yet  had  a  chance  to 
begin  redeeming  the  Americans,  and  she  was  worked 
so  hard  that  she  could  hardly  find  strength  enough 
to  take  her  clothes  off  at  night  and  put  them  on  again 
in  the  morning. 

216 


THE  SPLIT 

One  of  the  first  startlers  she  landed  in  Carthage 
was  a  letter  in  which  she  said : 

Just  time  for  a  line,  mother  honey.  I'm  so  dog  tired  of  nights 
I  fall  asleep  in  the  midst  of  my  prayers,  if  I  remember  to  say  them 
at  all — which  is  not  always.  I  poured  2,640  cups  of  chocolate 
to-day — which  is  going  some  for  little  Edna,  as  the  boys  call  me. 

Thank  the  Lord,  to-night  I  shall  sleep  in  sheets  for  the  first 
time  in  a  month.  We  don't  get  them,  but  the  nicest  young 
sergeant  you  ever  saw  got  a  pair  issued  to  him,  and  he  said  he 
couldn't  bear  to  use  them  when  I  had  none,  so  he  gave  them 
to  me. 

Don't  be  excited,  mother  darling;  he's  perfectly  nice.  He's 
an  American  sergeant  sent  ahead  on  some  liaison  work  for  the 
Intelligence.  He  only  gave  me  the  sheets  because  I  had  lent 
him  my  hot-water  bottle  one  night  when  he  had  cramps  in  his 
tummie.  So  you  see  it's  perfectly  all  right. 

Now  I'm  off  to  dreamland's  ice-creamy  mountains  until,  as 
the  song  says,  "that  dirty  pup  wakes  the  bugler  up." 

Poor  Mrs.  Eby  was  still  quivering  with  this  when 
Edna's  next  letter  announced  the  approach  of  a 
certain  Lady  Keenbrook. 

We're  all  crazy  to  see  what  she  looks  like.  We've  never  seen 
a  real  lady  with  a  capital  L. 

Belle  Cumbers  says  that  she  intends  to  show  this  English  snob 
that  an  American  lady  is  quite  as  good  as  anybody,  but  it's  easy 
to  see  that  Belladonna  (as  we  call  her,  because  she  makes  such 
eyes  at  the  men)  is  simply  perishing  to  rub  up  against  her.  So 
are  we  all. 

Nighty-night,  mother  dear.  I'm  so  proud  I  don't  know  what 
to  do.  I  broke  the  record  in  cigarette  sales  to-day.  I  sold  more 
Bill  Durhams,  Fat  Emmas,  and  Sweet  Caps  than  anybody  ever 
sold  before  at  this  canteen. 

The  sergeant  I  spoke  to  you  about  tried  to  teach  me  to  "roll 
my  own,"  as  he  so  cutely  phrased  it.  When  I  told  him  I  had 
never  smoked,  he  wouldn't  believe  me.  He  said  that  such 
ignorance  was  pitiful,  and  I  suppose  it  is,  but  there  is  a  strict 
rule  that  forbids  us  poor  Red  Triangleines  to  smoke,  so  I  shall 
have  to  wait  till  this  cruel  war  is  over. 

15  2I7 


"MOMMA" 

This  sergeant  is  the  darlingest  boy.  He  told  me  the  saddest 
story  of  his  life  the  other  day,  when  he  took  me  for  a  spin  in  his 
motor-cycle  side  car.  He  never  had  any  advantages  till  he 
became  a  prize  fighter.  He  says  he  learned  to  know  a  lot  that 
way.  Of  course  this  is  shocking  to  you,  but  if  you  lived  over 
here  awhile,  it  would  broaden  you  immensely. 

It  broadened  Mrs.  Eby  so  completely  that  it  flat 
tened  her  out.  Instead  of  going  to  the  pastor,  she 
had  to  send  for  him.  He  promised  to  mention  Edna 
in  his  next  Sunday's  prayer — the  long  one  in  which 
he  catalogued  the  needs  of  the  congregation  and  the 
world  in  a  sort  of  detailed  memorandum  to  Heaven. 

As  Edna  wrote  home,  the  ladies  of  Carthage  prom 
ised  to  let  Lady  Keenbrook  know  that  they  were 
just  as  good  as  she  was.  They  never  dreamed  that 
she  had  been  no  better  than  she  should  have  been ! 

When,  finally,  she  arrived,  they  were  dazed.  They 
had  expected  a  grandiose  and  glacial  queen-motherly 
sort  of  person,  resembling  the  Statue  of  Liberty,  with 
a  lorgnette  instead  of  a  torch.  They  expected  her 
to  drop  her  "h's"  and  say  "Fawncy"  and  "Don- 
cherknow,"  for  Carthage  knew  even  less  about  Ladies 
than  about  actresses. 

Lady  Keenbrook  turned  out  to  be  young  and  pretty 
and  simple  and  winsome.  She  seemed  to  be  even 
more  afraid  of  the  other  huttites  than  they  were  of 
her. 

As  Mrs.  Gaddy  said  to  Edna:  "She  acts  like  she 
wanted  to  giggle  at  us  half  the  time,  and  the  other 
half  she  acts  like  she  wanted  to  cry  her  eyes  out. 
She's  homesick,  likely,  to  be  back  with  her  own  kind. 
I  wonder  why  she  left  them." 

Edna,  somehow,  was  moved  to  rally  to  her  de 
fense — partly  because  Edna  was  good  of  heart  and 

218 


THE  SPLIT 

partly  because  everything  Mrs.  Gaddy  said  usually 
inspired  Edna  to  the  opposite  thought.     Edna  said: 

"I  suppose  we  look  kind  of  funny  to  her,  and  that 
accounts  for  her  snickers,  and  Lord  knows  she  has 
right  enough  to  feel  sad.  My  sergeant  was  telling 
me  he  heard  that  her  husband,  Lord  Keenbrook,  was 
killed  early  in  the  war,  and  then  she  went  to  Serbia 
and  was  caught  in  that  terrible  retreat,  and  once 
she  rode  for  eighty-one  hours  on  a  horse  through  the 
mountains,  in  snow  and  ice,  with  starvation  and 
typhus  and  panic,  and  the  Serbian  government 
decorated  her  with  the  order  of  some  saint  or  other. 
I  wonder  the  poor  thing  lives  at  all." 

Edna  somehow  could  call  almost  anybody  a  "poor 
thing"  and  make  it  feel  like  a  caress. 

The  Carthage  group  did  not  get  at  Lady  Keen- 
brook  for  the  first  few  days,  because  she  was  almost 
entirely  surrounded  by  generals  of  all  nations  and 
by  liaison  officers — "well  named,  too,"  said  Miss 
Cumbers,  who  was  more  neglected  than  in  Carthage 
and  had  not  once  been  asked  to  sing  twice. 

As  soon  as  Lady  Keenbrook  could  shake  off  her 
pursuers  she  came  straight  to  the  Carthage  women. 
They  were  furious  at  being  caught  washing  dishes — 
washing  dishes,  of  all  things,  when  their  first  Lady 
came  along! 

Their  wrath  was  changed  to  astonishment  when 
she  picked  up  a  towel  and  a  dish  and  said : 

"1  understand  that  you  all  come  from  Carthage." 

They  tried  to  be  modest  about  it,  but  this  was 
hard  in  view  of  the  manifest  fact  that  Carthage  was 
known  at  the  English  court.  When  they  had  nodded 
and  flushed,  the  electric  creature  said: 

"It  makes  me  homesick  to  hear  the  very  word." 
219 


"MOMMA" 

"'Homesick'?" 

"Yes.     I  was  born  in  Missouri,  you  know." 

"No!"  "We  didn't  know!"  "Well,  did  you 
ever?" 

"Oh  yes;  and  as  a  girl  I  was  always  hearing  about 
Carthage.  But  I  left  home  very  early,  of  course." 

"You  did?"  "Did  you?"  "You  don't  say!" 
"Is  that  so?" 

"You  see,  I  was  only  seventeen  when  I  went  to 
London." 

' '  Your  father  and  mother  took  you  over,  I  s'pose  ? ' ' 

"Oh  no — no;  I  went  by  myself." 

"Oh!"    "Is  that  so?"    "Oh!"     "Oh!" 

"You  hadn't  heard  about  my  experience  with  the 
Halls,  then?" 

"No!"     "Yes!"     "Well!"     "Did  you?" 

At  that  tantalizing  moment,  Lady  Keenbrook  was 
called  by  one  of  the  high  boys.  She  paused  just 
long  enough  to  say: 

"I  asked  to  be  assigned  to  an  American  unit  the 
minute  our  dear  country  came  into  the  war.  It  was 
a  long  wait.  My  God!  I  almost  went  mad.  But 
now  we're  in,  and  we're  going  to  see  it  through,  aren't 
we?  So  glad  to  be  with  you  all." 

She  left  them  statuary  about  their  wash  basins — 
a  sort  of  John  Rogers  group  of  homely  befuddlement. 
There  were  two  questions  to  decide,  the  latter  first: 
Could  a  real  lady  say  "My  God!"  It  was  finally 
settled  that,  while  a  lady  could  not,  a  Lady  could. 
Evidently. 

The  other  question  was  what  she  meant  by  her 
"experience  with  the  Halls."  Mrs.  Gaddy  said  that 
the  Halls  were  a  well-known  English  family,  but  Mrs. 
Shingle  insisted  that  she  referred  to  the  castles  and 

220 


THE  SPLIT 

palaces  of  England,  places  like  the  Halls  of  Parlia 
ment  and  Locksley  Hall  sixty  years  after. 

They  never  found  out  just  what  Lady  Keenbrook 
did  mean,  for  greater  excitements  than  even  the 
arrival  of  a  Lady  from  Missouri  supervened  at  once. 
The  last  wild  German  offensive  broke,  and  the  Allied 
line  broke  with  it. 

The  women  of  Carthage  and  the  women  of  all  the 
nations  forgot  the  pettinesses  that  peace  encourages 
and  buckled  down  to  a  death-lock  with  cataclysm. 
They  toiled,  heart-broken,  back-broken,  sleep-broken 
— everything  but  spirit-broken.  They  lost  their 
nerve  only  when  they  were  told  to  make  ready  to 
move  back  to  the  rear. 

Edna  insulted  the  colonel  who  broached  the  subject. 
Miss  Cumbers,  Mrs.  Gaddy,  and  Mrs.  Shingle  set 
their  arms  akimbo  and  refused  to  budge.  Lady  Keen- 
brook,  however,  tried  her  smiles  on  him  and  bewitched 
him  into  consenting  that  they  should  remain. 

Grim  days  of  hideous  tasks  ensued.  The  canteen 
work  gave  place  to  ghastly  labors  among  the  wounded 
soldiers,  the  tottering  old  men  and  women  who  could 
flee  no  farther,  the  children  who  were  lost  and  aghast 
at  the  disorder  of  the  world. 

Lady  Keenbrook  did  for  strange  men  chores  that 
she  would  never  have  asked  her  maid  to  do  for  her. 
She  was  as  spendthrift  of  herself  in  the  business  of 
sorrow  as  she  had  been  aforetime  in  the  business  of 
pleasure.  It  had  been  her  sin,  as  it  became  her  sal 
vation,  that  she  could  not  deny  herself  to  men  in  an 
agony  of  desire  or  dismay. 

In  one  of  her  hysterical  collapses,  after  a  prolonged 
vigil  among  troops  dumped  out  of  a  hospital  train 
wrecked  by  a  German  airship,  she  told  Edna  some- 

221 


"MOMMA" 

thing  of  her  earlier  career,  of  her  life  in  America,  of 
her  visit  to  England  as  a  chorus  girl,  of  her  tour  of 
the  provinces,  of  her  meeting  with  the  scampish 
young  Lord  Keenbrook. 

Their  affair  had  begun  viciously,  but  by  some 
mysterious  chemistry  of  souls  the  two  wastrels  re 
deemed  each  other.  They  had  just  married  and  set 
tled  down  to  a  life  of  commonplace  domesticity  when 
the  war  called  him  to  his  death. 

Edna,  who  had  never  even  dreamed  of  half  the 
things  a  city  girl  overhears,  was  not  shocked  at  all. 
Perhaps  she  could  not  visualize  them.  Perhaps  she 
remembered  that  the  Magdalene  was  nearer  to  Christ 
than  any  other  woman.  She  felt  only  a  deep  pity 
for  Lady  Letty,  and  she  kept  petting  her  and  mur 
muring,  "You  poor  thing!"  till  the  bitter  heart  had 
emptied  itself. 

Emotion  chased  emotion  out  in  France,  and  Edna 
was  permitted  to  revel  in  her  new  knowledge  and  her 
postgraduate  sympathy  only  for  a  day  or  two,  when 
a  vast  exultation  swept  the  scene.  The  Americans 
were  coming  up! 

The  hut  at  Fargeton  was  told  to  make  ready  to 
receive  one  column  and  refresh  it  for  a  day.  This 
would  be  the  last  sight  the  soldiers  would  have  of 
civilization,  for  they  were  approaching  the  trenches. 

The  women  wrought  mightily;  sandwiches  were 
built  up  in  steep  walls;  coffee  and  chocolate  were 
prepared  in  gallons;  writing  paper  was  heaped  high 
to  carry  the  last  messages  to  many  a  woman  who 
stayed  at  home;  cigars,  cigarettes,  and  pipe  tobacco 
were  piled  aloft ;  the  chewing  gum  that  had  finally 
seduced  even  the  French  to  a  new  American  vice  was 
displayed  wholesale. 

222 


THE  SPLIT 

The  exhausted  women  surveyed  their  work  with 
a  kind  of  awe.  Edna  was  so  fagged  that  she  sobbed. 

"All  we  can  do  to  win  the  war  is  to  give  the  boys 
something  for  their  stomachs  and  their  lungs." 

Mrs.  Gaddy  was  fatigue-nasty  enough  to  snip : 

"Why  don't  you  hold  one  of  those  prayer  meetings 
you  were  always  going  to,  and  save  a  few  souls?" 

Edna  snapped  back: 

"Oh,  I'm  not  quite  as  big  a  fool  as  I  was  when  I 
came  over." 

"Why,  Edna,"  Mrs.  Shingle  gasped,  "you're  not 
going  back  on  your  church  teaching,  are  you?" 

"Well,  I've  learned  one  thing,  and  that  is  that 
these  boys  are  too  busy  saving  their  souls  by  cruci 
fying  their  bodies  to  be  bothered  by  any  of  my  pious 
notions.  They  want  to  laugh,  and  be  excited  about 
something  pretty  and  stunning — something  that  will 
take  their  minds  off  the  hell  they're  going  into." 

"The  what?"  cried  Mrs.  Gaddy. 

"You  heard  me.  I  think  it's  a  darn  shame  we 
haven't  got  any  actresses  here  to  give  them  a  little 
real  entertainment." 

"That's  true!"  cried  Lady  Letty.  "We  simply 
must  get  up  a  show  of  some  sort." 

"But  what  can  we  do?"  Edna  sighed.  "It  takes 
professionals  to  make  people  laugh." 

Mrs.  Shingle  modestly  offered  herself. 

"I  might  recite  for  them — some  of  my  lighter 
pieces." 

"But  that's  only  one  number,"  sighed  Lady  Letty. 

"Oh,  I  know  six  or  seven  very  droll  ones,"  Mrs. 
Shingle  persisted,  ruthlessly. 

"You  don't  dance,  too,  do  you?"  said  Lady  Letty, 
with  a  sarcasm  that  only  Mrs.  Shingle  missed. 

223 


"MOMMA" 

"No,  I  don't.    At  least,  I've  never  tried  to." 

"Now,  there's  nothing  like  a  good  swift  dance — 
something  wild  and  fiery  and  reckless — the  boys  like 
such  things  because  they're  full  of  deviltry  and  grace 
and—" 

Her  face  was  a  lamp  lighted  by  an  inner  flame. 
The  women  noted  her  unusual  exaltation,  and  Mrs. 
Gaddy  mumbled : 

"You  talk  like  you  could  dance,  yourself.  Why 
don't  you?" 

Lady  Letty  was  thrown  into  a  surprising  con 
fusion. 

"Me?  Oh,  heavens!  I  couldn't!  Oh  no!  That 
would  be  impossible,  quite,  quite  impossible!" 

Edna  started  to  speak,  but  checked  herself.  By 
the  time  the  division's  farthest  tentacles  reached  the 
town  the  women  had  got  no  farther  than  arranging 
two  groups  of  numbers  each,  a,  b,  and  c,  by  Mrs. 
Shingle,  to  be  called  "In  Lighter  Vein";  and  two 
groups  of  songs  (three  each,  a,  b,  and  c)  which  Miss 
Cumbers  had  more  or  less  deftly  managed  to  get 
invited  to  render. 

They  made  vain  efforts  to  persuade  Lady  Letty 
to  do  something.  She  kept  shaking  her  head. 

Mrs.  Shingle  thought  that  it  would  please  the  boys 
to  have  a  real  Lady  appear  before  them. 

' '  We  must  all  do  our  bits, ' '  she  urged.  ' '  Of  course, 
we  can't  all  do  juggling  or  turn  summersets  or  things 
like  that,  but — well,  you  see  what  I'm  getting  at, 
don't  you?  And  that's  why  I'm  going  to  recite 
humorous  pieces.  You  see,  don't  you?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Lady  Letty.  "And  I  think  it's 
very  noble  of  you  to  sacrifice  your  audience — your 
self,  but  I  just  can't  find  anything  to  do.  These 

224 


THE  SPLIT 

men  are  from  New  York,  and  they  are  used  to  the 
best.  They  know  too  much." 

So  they  left  her  off  the  program.  But  the  army 
seemed  to  find  no  fault  with  her  mere  presence  as 
she  stood  watching  the  column  wind  through  the 
streets  of  Fargeton. 

The  men  were  footsore,  and,  for  all  their  jaunti- 
ness,  they  knew  that  every  step  took  them  nearer 
to  the  playground  of  death.  They  must  juggle  bay 
onets  before  the  altar  of  patriotism.  They  were 
draft  troops  and  their  training-time  had  been  brief 
and  grilling.  Many  of  them  had  known  little  of  life 
but  the  fast  New  York  phases  of  it.  They  had  been 
a  motley  gang  when  they  marched  Fifth  Avenue  first 
in  their  own  clothes.  They  had  marched  again 
through  Fifth  Avenue  in  uniform,  as  smart  and 
unified  a  body  as  could  be.  They  would  march 
Fifth  Avenue  a  third  time  with  diminished  numbers, 
but  with  the  glory  of  having  gained  more  ground 
than  almost  any  other  division  from  America. 

The  Carthage  women  saw  a  part  of  them  just 
going  to  their  initiation.  It  was  a  heart-throttling 
thing  to  realize  that  this  one  or  that  one  was  trudg 
ing  to  his  death  and  those  others  to  cruel  wounds 
and  the  rest  to  the  enjoyment  of  immortal  glory. 

All  the  women  who  greeted  them  loved  them  and 
grieved  over  them  with  war  rapture.  But  the  men's 
eyes  went  at  once  to  Lady  Letty.  They  took  new 
life  from  her  smile  as  if  it  were  a  cup  of  water  held 
out  to  them  as  they  plodded  the  desert. 

And  her  beauty  rejoiced  them  mystically  as  a  rose 
does  hanging  from  a  roadside  wall. 

The  other  women  were  thrilled  as  thoroughly  as 
she  and  were  as  ready  to  toil  or  to  die  in  the  sol- 

225 


"MOMMA" 

diers'  behalf.     But  Lady  Letty  had  need  only  to 
bloom. 

Cabbages  are  perhaps  more  useful  and  reliable  than 
any  rose,  but  the  sight  of  them  can  never  bring  the 
same  emotions. 

These  men  going  out  to  a  chaos  of  ugliness  wanted 
with  all  their  souls  to  have  a  glimpse  of  something 
beautiful  and  frail  and  fragrant  and  a-smile.  They 
did  not  know  their  need,  perhaps,  and  some  of  them 
were  irreverent  in  their  gratitude.  But  so  different 
men  express  a  poetry  that  gleams  suddenly  in  their 
hearts.  They  rail  at  it  lest  they  betray  a  tenderness 
they  cannot  distinguish  from  weakness. 

The  line  plodded  by  eternally  under  the  leadership 
of  General  Alexander,  a  great  soldier  and  a  judge  of 
good  literature,  as  jovial  a  warrior  as  ever  jested  at 
scars  when  he  felt  a  wound. 

He  smiled  at  the  ladies  and  moved  on  with  his 
strange  army  of  assorted  souls — a  captain  who  was 
a  gifted  sculptor,  and  others  who  were  writers,  actors, 
acrobats,  gunmen,  clergymen,  policemen,  fiddlers, 
clowns,  tragedians,  and  plain  laborers. 

The  division  had  a  famous  amusement  troupe  of 
its  own,  later  famous  as  the  Argonne  Players,  and 
gave  brilliant  performances  in  Paris  and  other  cities. 
But  this  column  was  detached  from  the  main  body 
now  and  bent  on  most  serious  business. 

Edna  kept  glancing  at  Lady  Letty,  wondering  at 
the  secret  of  her  magnetism.  She  was  giving  her 
beauty  now,  as  once  before,  to  passing  strangers. 

Suddenly,  Edna  saw  her  freeze,  gasp,  whiten,  stag 
ger  back,  and  vanish  through  a  door.  Edna  followed 
and  found  her  in  a  chair,  her  face  in  her  hands,  her 
body  shuddering. 

226 


THE  SPLIT 

Edna  pleaded  to  be  allowed  to  help  her,  but  she 
shook  her  head.  At  last  she  looked  up  and  faltered : 

"I'm  all  right;  a  little  faint,  I  guess.  Been  on  my 
feet  too  long,  probably." 

It  seemed  odd  even  to  Edna  to  hear  a  Lady  say, 
' '  I  guess. ' '  Her  manner  was  odder  still.  She  laughed 
no  more,  but  stood  up  waveringly  and  went  out  to 
greet  the  soldiers. 

She  gave  them  her  beauty  to  witness,  but  her 
smile  was  without  illumination. 


ii 

When  a  detachment  had  halted  and  made  camp, 
the  men  swarmed  into  the  hut  and  raided  it  with  a 
German  thoroughness.  In  spite  of  their  weariness, 
the  ladies  gave  their  entertainment  that  night.  Edna 
described  it  in  a  letter. 

MOTHER  DARLING, — I'm  too  dog  tired  to  write  much.  An 
American  army  has  just  settled  down  upon  us,  and  I'm  a  wreck. 
We  fed  them  and  drank  them  and  smoked  them  thoroughly. 
We  even  gave  them  an  entertainment — two,  in  fact.  The  first 
one  entertained  the  ladies  who  gave  it,  but  the  poor  soldiers, 
Lord  help  them! 

I  haven't  the  strength  to  tell  you  what  Belle  Cumbers  and 
Mesdames  Shingle  and  Gaddy  did  to  those  poor  boys.  The  only 
good  thing  about  it  is  that  the  boys  will  never  fear  anything  the 
Huns  can  do  to  them.  I'd  have  given  my  right  arm  to  be  Elsie 
Janis  for  ten  minutes. 

We  used  to  speak  of  comedians  as  if  they  were  stupid  and 
wicked  people  who  just  went  about  making  fools  of  themselves 
for  money.  I  tell  you  they  are  all  scientists  and  missionaries. 

Those  soldiers  panted  for  something  really  clever,  as  the  hart 
panteth  after  the  water-brooks.  One  good  laugh  would  have 
done  them  more  good  than  all  the  prayers  that  could  be  uttered. 

Lady  Letty  and  I  were  the  only  ones  who  didn't  inflict  any 
thing  on  the  helpless  soldiers.  I  stood  off  like  a  mutt,  just  feel- 

227 


"MOMMA" 

ing  disgusted;  Lady  Letty  was  weeping  with  pity  for  the 
audience. 

Well,  after  it  was  all  over,  we  learned  that  the  soldiers  were  to 
stay  one  more  day  and  one  more  night.  And  what  do  you  sup 
pose  these  infernal  idiots — Mrs.  Shingle  and  Belle  Cumbers — 
proposed  to  do?  They  suggested  giving  the  same  program  all 
over  again  so  that  those  of  the  army  who  had  not  been  able  to 
get  near  enough  to  hear  could  have  another  chance! 

Well,  as  soon  as  it  was  certain  that  the  men  would  be  with  us 
for  twenty-four  hours,  Lady  Letty  got  busy,  and  she  got  the 
army  busy,  too. 

The  next  morning  the  soldiers  began  to  build  a  big  platform. 
It  went  up  like  a  mushroom. 

My  sergeant  came  along  to  tell  me  good-by.  He's  going  for 
ward  with  the  division,  and  he's  so  happy  he  doesn't  know  what 
to  do.  But  I'm  scared  stiff  for  fear  he'll  get  hurt.  It  makes 
an  awful  difference  when  somebody  you  really  care  for  goes  in. 
He  had  promised  me  that  if  he  didn't  get  bumped  off  he  would 
never  go  into  the  prize  ring  again.  So  I  shall  have  saved  one 
soul  at  least,  even  if  I  have  lost  my  own  heart — 

At  this  point,  Edna's  mother  broke  off  reading 
while  she  tried  to  faint.  Swooning  and  sneezing, 
however,  will  not  come  at  will.  She  had  to  be  con 
tent  with  telephoning  the  pastor. 

"Edna  is  going  to  marry  a  prize  fighter." 

This  drove  even  the  pastor  to  profanity. 

"Good  gracious!"  he  cursed.  "You  don't  tell 
me!" 

"She  writes  it  right  here  in  the  letter.  At  least 
she  says  that  if  he  doesn't  get — bumped  off,  whatever 
that  means,  he  will  never  fight  again,  and  that  she's 
saved  his  soul  but  lost  her  heart." 

The  pastor  could  be  heard  ruminating  for  some 
time  before  he  answered : 

"Well,  of  course,  you  must  not  yield  to  discour 
agement.  He  may  get — er — bumped  off." 

With  that  slender  and  somewhat  questionable  spir- 

228 


THE  SPLIT 

itual  support,  Mrs.  Eby  found  strength  to  read  the 
rest  of  the  letter. 

I  asked  the  sergeant  what  the  platform  was  for,  and  he  said, 
"The  boys  are  going  to  pull  off  a  few  friendly  bouts  with  the 
gloves." 

Then  he  asked  me  if  I  would  ease  up  on  him  for  just  one  night 
and  let  him  off  on  his  promise  not  to  fight  again,  for  there  was  a 
guy  saying  he  was  the  champ  of  the  division  and  the  sergeant 
didn't  want  him  to  go  to  heaven  with  any  such  error  on  his  soul. 

Well,  of  course  I  protested,  but  he  said  he  had  a  wallop  up 
his  sleeve  that  would  put  that  baby  to  sleep  at  the  first  kiss, 
and  he  would  die  unhappy  if  he  couldn't  leave  it  loose  for  just 
this  only  once.  So  of  course  I  had  to  give  in.  And  oh,  mother, 
you  should  have  seen  him. 

It  was  the  first  boxing  match  I  ever  saw  and  it  was  terrible, 
but,  oh,  so  beautiful;  for  my  darling  boy  made  that  would-be 
champ  look  like  Belle  Cumbers  reaching  for  the  last  high  note  in 
"Comin'  Through  the  Rye." 

You  should  have  heard  those  soldiers  yell.  Oh,  mother,  111 
bet  the  Kaiser  trembled  when  the  noise  reached  him. 

The  rest  of  the  entertainment  was  one  series  of  knockouts. 
They  got  talent  from  their  own  men  and  put  over  a  wonderful 
show. 

They  had  two  gloriously  funny  female  impersonators  who  did 
rough  stuff  and  made  the  soldiers  howl.  Some  of  it  was  pretty 
raw,  and  I  was  glad  I  was  back  in  the  dark,  where  I  could  blush. 
But  it  was  awfully  virile.  And  it  got  over.  That  is  the  main 
thing  in  life,  mother,  whether  it's  religion  or  humor — to  put  your 
stuff  across.  I've  learned  that  from  the  war. 

But  the  triumph  of  the  evening  was  contributed  by  my  own 
dear  Letty,  Lady  Letty,  you  know.  She  asked  me  to  call  her 
Letty,  and  she  put  the  crowning  touch  on  the  evening  with  the 
most  beautiful  and  the  noblest  deed  of  self-sacrifice  I  ever  heard 
of  a  woman  achieving.  You  see —  But  there  goes  the  bugle. 
The  army  is  marching  away  to  the  trenches  for  the  great  jump- 
off,  and  I  must  run  and  tell  them  good-by.  I'll  tell  you  all  about 
Lady  Letty's  sublime  deed  when  I  see  you.  And  I  think  that 
will  be  soon,  for,  now  that  my  sergeant  is  going  to  the  front,  the 
war  won't  last  much  longer.  Your  loying 

229 


"MOMMA" 

in 

Edna  never  went  back  to  Carthage  and  never  told 
her  mother  just  what  it  was  that  Lady  Letty  did. 
But  Mrs.  Shingle  got  home  eventually,  and  this  is 
the  substance  of  what  she  told: 

On  the  morning  after  the  dire  failure  of  the  Car 
thage  trio's  venture  into  the  amusement  morass, 
Lady  Letty  vanished,  and  was  gone  all  day.  Edna 
and  the  others  searched  for  her  in  vain. 

They  went  without  her  to  witness  from  afar  the 
second  entertainment.  Mrs.  Gaddy  was  acutely  dis 
tressed  by  the  vulgarity  of  the  female  impersonators. 
She  wondered  where  such  females  could  be  found. 
They  bore  not  the  faintest  resemblance  to  anything 
female  in  her  ken. 

The  barker,  who  barked  with  the  classic  intonation 
of  all  ballyhoo  artists,  made  the  announcement  of  the 
last  number  somewhat  as  follows: 

"La-deeze  and  gent'men:  The  Sev'ty-sev'th  Dee- 
veez-yone  has  the  hon-nor  of  inclewdeen  in  its  array 
of  tal-int  none  oth-aw  than  the  fa-mis  dan-saw,  Cor- 
poril  Teddee  Fillmaw.  In  the  good  old  day-eez  of 
Hammersteen's  he  had  a  pawt-neer,  a  beauti-fool 
la-dee  famil-yar  to  all  New  Yaw-kers  as  Cissee  La- 
tour.  Yew  all  re-mem-ba  hah  as  the  foist  and  faw- 
most  ex-po-nint  of  the  dazzleen  feat  known  as  the 
flyeen  split. 

"This  little  la-dee  left  Teddee  some  yee-urz  ago, 
and  he  has  not  seen  hah  since.  By  a  stroke  of  that 
good  faw-chewn  which  will  always  follow  this  grand 
and  glawr-yus  dee-veez-yone,  Miss  Cissee  Latour 
happins  to  be  in  France  and  has  voluntee-yahd  to 
appee-yah  faw  tew-night  onlee  and  dew  her  bit  for 

230 


THE  SPLIT 

your  entertainmint.  Give  the  la-dee  credit,  boys. 
She's  clev-ah." 

The  applause  was  thunderous.  Many  of  the  sol 
diers  remembered  the  pert  and  gracile  Cissy,  and 
the  rest  pretended.  But  they  all  expected  another 
burlesque  of  female  impersonation  and  wondered 
what  runt  among  them  dared  to  imitate  the  immortal 
Cissy. 

They  recognized  Corporal  Teddy  Fillmore,  for  his 
complex  foot  work  had  delighted  them  often,  but 
their  riotous  uproar  was  choked  off  short  when  he 
turned  to  help  through  the  ropes  a  slight  figure  too 
small,  too  delicate  for  any  soldier's.  Few  women 
were  built  as  exquisitely  as  she,  and  there  was  every 
gracious  evidence  of  womanhood  in  her  contour,  her 
carriage,  and  the  very  aura  of  her  presence. 

Her  face  was  swathed  in  a  mask  of  rose-colored 
chiffon  that  just  did  not  hide  the  beauty  beneath 
and  just  did  not  reveal  it. 

There  was  a  curious  pathos  about  her,  for  all  her 
frivolity  of  costume.  She  was  plainly  afraid,  and 
that  endeared  her  to  them,  for  their  ideal  was  timidity 
that  steels  itself  for  the  Cause's  sake. 

The  band  struck  up  an  old-fashioned  waltz,  and 
Corporal  Fillmore,  bending  to  scoop  into  his  arms 
his  tiny  confederate,  swept  her  about  the  platform 
in  long  swoops  and  dips  and  swirls.  He  flung  her 
from  him  spinning  and  caught  her  outflung  hand  to 
draw  her  back  into  the  vortex  of  his  own  rhythm. 
For  the  finish  of  the  dance  he  clasped  her  in  his 
arms,  and  followed  the  standard  pattern  of  the  waltz 
in  a  dreamy  revolution  of  a  somehow  solemn  beauty. 

Edna,  watching  her,  felt  tears  on  her  eyelids,  and 
thought  of  the  hymns  she  had  meant  to  teach. 

231 


"MOMMA" 

There  was  something  hymnal  now  in  the  very  grace 
of  this  ritual. 

The  dance  ended.  The  dancers  paused,  bowing 
on  all  sides  to  the  tumultuous  but  respectful  homage 
of  the  throng.  The  soldiers  felt  love  in  their  hearts 
for  little  Miss  Latour,  panting  with  the  velocity  of 
her  unwonted  efforts.  She  had  given  them,  perhaps, 
their  last  look  at  the  supernal  charm  of  young  woman 
hood  deploying  all  its  beauties  in  the  music  of  flesh. 

But  this  was  not  all  of  Miss  Latour's  largess  to 
them.  At  a  nod  from  Fillmore  the  band  flared  up 
in  insolent  ridicule  of  the  tender  moods  it  had  just 
expressed.  Brass  roared  and  wood  wind  whooped; 
drums  shivered  and  gongs  knocked. 

Now  Miss  Latour  laid  aside  her  thoughts  of  grace 
and  pathetic  loveliness.  She  kicked  high  and  low, 
this  way  and  that;  her  feet  sought  the  zenith  and 
the  nadir  at  once.  She  flung  her  sweet  head  back 
and  smote  it  with  the  palm  of  her  upflung  foot. 

She  taunted  her  partner,  dodged  him,  gave  him 
patterns  of  cloggy  steps  to  copy.  She  pranced  like 
a  pouter  pigeon.  She  toddled  on  her  toe  points.  She 
let  him  swing  her  about  through  the  air  like  a  torch, 
and  she  emitted  whoops  of  reckless  laughter. 

At  length  Fillmore  caught  her  at  the  waist  and 
hoisted  her  high.  One  of  her  feet  went  higher.  The 
other  thrust  downward,  and  she  struck  six  o'clock. 

Then  he  swept  her  through  the  air  and  brought 
her  to  earth  in  a  sidelong  swoop,  whose  very  curve 
gladdened  the  soul  somehow. 

He  let  her  go,  but  she  did  not  rest  on  her  feet. 
She  went  to  earth  in  a  nine-fifteen  posture,  on  a 
horizontal  plane. 

Fillmore  stamped  his  foot  in  a  dancer's  wrath. 
232 


THE  SPLIT 

He  tried  to  lift  her.  But  she  would  not  obey.  She 
slipped  back  like  a  broken  puppet  into  that  divided 
attitude.  The  soldiers  yelped  with  laughter. 

Fillmore  grew  more  indignant.  He  caught  her 
under  the  arms  and  circled  the  stage,  stepping  across 
her  body,  where  it  spun  with  the  toes  at  the  hub  of 
the  wheel. 

Finally,  in  sheer  rage,  he  lifted  her  to  her  feet, 
imbued  her  with  his  own  frenzy.  They  danced  with 
a  mad  furiousness,  too  fleet  for  the  eye  to  follow. 
Their  feet  outrolled  the  frantic  drummer's  clatter. 

As  the  band  rallied  to  the  wild  climax  of  its  jazz, 
Teddy  hurled  his  partner  from  him  in  disdain.  The 
men  gasped  as  she  darted  through  the  air,  her  feet 
dispread  like  a  hurdler's. 

She  came  down  so,  and  struck  the  platform  as  if 
split  apart. 

There  was  a  gasp  of  fear.  Then  they  saw  that  she 
was  bending  her  pretty  head,  tapping  her  knee  cap 
with  her  forehead  in  a  mockery  of  faint  homage. 

The  soldiers  tore  the  night  to  pieces  with  their 
applause.  Fillmore  lifted  Miss  Latour  to  her  feet, 
and  she  took  the  homage  with  much  throwing  of 
kisses.  They  could  not  see  her  mystic  face,  but, 
from  the  agitation  of  her  pretty  shoulders,  they 
judged  that  she  was  crying. 

Fillmore  spoke  to  her.  She  hesitated,  then  nodded 
weakly.  He  went  to  the  ropes  and  asked  the  band 
for  a  reprise  of  the  last  of  the  music. 

The  band  renewed  the  clamor  at  its  wildest.  Fill- 
more  seized  that  dainty  morsel  of  bravery  in  his 
arms,  repeated  the  insanity  of  the  dance,  and  tossed 
her  away  again  with  prodigal  indifference  to  her  fate. 

She  landed  again  with  the  flying  split.  And,  now 
16  233 


"MOMMA" 

that  the  soldiers  knew  that  she  could  not  be  hurt, 
they  raised  a  pandemonium,  a  superpandemonium, 
for  suddenly  they  saw  her  face  unveiled. 

As  she  left  his  arms  for  the  last  time,  a  button  on 
Teddy's  sleeve  caught  in  her  chiffon  mask  and  ripped 
it  loose. 

The  soldiers  saw  that  Cissy  Latour  was  as  beautiful 
as  she  was  graceful  and  gallant. 

The  ladies  from  Carthage  saw  that  she  was  Lady 
Letitia  Keenbrook. 

IV 

And  this  was  the  deed  that  Edna  called  sublime! 
The  most  beautiful  and  the  noblest  self-sacrifice! 

Lady  Letty,  who  had  climbed  the  stairs  of  social 
prestige  so  slowly,  so  painfully,  slid  down  the  ban 
isters,  hunted  up  her  old  partner,  and  did  the  split 
to  please  the  soldiers.  And  Edna  approved! 

Mrs.  Shingle  told  everybody  in  Carthage  all  about 
her  one  experience  with  a  capital  Lady.  And  what 
she  said  of  Edna  would  have  filled  a  book. 

Poor  Mrs.  Eby  stayed  indoors  for  weeks.  The 
parson  took  upon  himself  the  blame  for  the  loss  of 
Edna's  soul,  for  what  else  could  he  call  the  sea  change 
that  had  transformed  the  demure  and  sedate  little 
Edna  that  Carthage  had  intrusted  to  the  war? 

The  backsliding  of  Edna  was  more  appalling  than 
the  apart-sliding  of  a  dozen  Ladies  Letty. 

Mrs.  Eby  never  showed  anybody  the  rest  of  her 
letters  from  Edna.  One  of  the  worst  of  them  ran  as 
follows : 

The  Lord  evidently  meant  Lady  Letty  to  be  a  dancer,  other 
wise  why  should  He  have  given  her  such  pretty  legs  and  such 
limber  joints? 

234 


THE  SPLIT 

I  don't  suppose  she  dances  much  the  way  that  Miriam  and 
David  did,  but  times  change,  and  the  Bible  tells  us  to  be  all 
things  to  all  men. 

Anyway,  Lady  Letty  is  going  back  to  the  stage  after  the  war. 
She  left  it  to  marry  a  nobleman,  and  she  grew  ashamed  of  her 
past  and  tried  to  hide  it.  But  the  war  came  and  demanded  of 
her  her  gift,  as  it  demanded  of  everybody  his  or  her  utmost,  and 
she  gave  it.  That's  the  main  thing — to  sacrifice  yourself  for 
others. 

This  has  been  a  lesson  to  me,  I  tell  you.  I  was  always  planning 
to  save  people  by  telling  them  their  duty  and  trying  to  lift  them 
to  nobler  thoughts.  I  never  got  much  of  anywhere  except  to 
build  up  my  own  pride  and  make  me  think  I  was  closer  to  God 
than  anybody  and  had  a  special  billet  in  heaven.  Now  I  realize 
that  just  making  people  happier  is  doing  them  about  as  much 
good  as  anybody  can.  Life  is  so  short  and  so  dangerous  and  so 
terribly  sad  that  the  fun  makers  and  the  beauty  makers  are  real 
filanthropists. 

I'm  not  graceful  or  beautiful.  I  can't  sing  or  act  or  tell  funny 
stories.  I  can't  dance  and  do  clever  things  like  Lady  Letty 
can,  but  there's  one  thing  I  do  know  a  lot  about  now,  and  that's 
tobacco.  And  after  what  I've  seen  of  the  gratitude  people  feel 
if  you'll  only  slip  them  a  cigar  or  a  cigarette  when  they  need  it, 
I  don't  see  any  higher  mission  than  running  a  smoke  store.  I 
don't  want  to  smoke  any  myself,  because  it's  like  taking  food 
from  the  hungry. 

Over  here  the  government  shops,  where  they  sell  tabac,  as  they 
call  it,  are  mostly  run  by  women.  So  when  I  come  home  I'm 
going  to  open  a  cigar-and-cigarette  emporiam  in  New  York  with 
my  sergeant  for  pardner. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  we  got  engaged  just  before  he  went 
out  to  battle.  If  he  comes  back,  we'll  be  married.  He  has  an 
uncle  who  owns  a  tobacco  farm  in  Connecticut,  and  he  says  we 
can  get  our  Havana  fillers  there.  My  sergeant  says  awfully 
funny  things. 

But  he  can  be  in  earnest,  too,  and  though  we  expect  to  begin 
modestly,  we  hope,  some  day,  to  have  a  big  importing  business 
of  our  own.  I  hope  you'll  like  this,  because  I  remember  how 
grandma  used  to  enjoy  her  pipe  after  a  hard  day's  washing. 

So  you  see  everything  has  its  compinsations,  after  all.  It 
isn't  all  wasted.  The  war  brought  Lady  Letty  back  to  the  stage,. 

235 


"MOMMA" 

and  it  has  shown  me  the  way  to  a  life  of  real  usefulness  and  com 
fort  to  others  in  the  tobacco  field.  This  war  certainly  is 
broadening. 

I  wish  dear  Doctor  Swanton  could  marry  us,  but  since  he  can't 
come  over  here  for  that,  please  ask  him  to  pray  for  Tina's  safe 
return  and  for  our  success  in  the  tobacco  business. 

Mrs.  Eby  never  delivered  this  message,  and  Doc 
tor  Swanton  never  prayed  for  the  prize  fighter's  re 
turn  to  safety. 

Perhaps  that  was  why  Sergeant  Tim  did  not  come 
back  entirely.  He  left  on  the  battlefield  the  hand 
that  carried  the  lovely  wallop. 

But,  as  Edna  wrote  home,  everything  has  its 
"compinsations,"  for  her  husband  was  never  tempted 
to  leave  the  blissful  haven  of  the  tobacco  shop  and 
return  to  the  prize  ring. 

Edna's  latest  letter  contained  these  significant 
words : 

My  Tim  says  the  prize  ring  for  him  is  the  plain  gold  band  on 
my  thoid  finger — he  says  it  that  way,  like  all  born  New  Yorkers 
do.  I'm  getting  to  talk  that  way  myself.  Tim  says  the  funniest 
things.  I  tell  you  a  sense  of  humor  certainly — I  mean  soitainly 
— helps  you  in  this  woild. 

Business  in  the  shop  is  growing  all  the  time  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  I  can't  wait  on  customers  any  more  now.  But  I  did  go  to 
see  Lady  Letty's  first  reappearance  on  the  stage.  She's  gone 
back  to  "Latour"  on  the  billboards.  It's  "Mrs.  Fillmore"  off 
the  stage.  But  she'll  always  be  Lady  Letty  to  me. 

In  fact,  Tim  says  unless  we  have  to  name  the  baby  "Tim," 
after  him,  we'll  name  it  "Letty,"  after  her.  You  won't  mind, 
will  you,  mother?  We'll  name  the  next  one  after  you. 

Mrs.  Eby  says  nothing,  but  sews  fast  at  garments 
which,  fortunately,  will  fit  either  a  Timmy  or  a  Letty, 
as  the  case  may  be. 


IX 
A  STORY  I  CAN'T  WRITE 

r"PHIS  is  my  first  appearance  as  one  of  those  authors 
A  who  step  out  in  front  of  the  curtain  and  talk 
about  themselves  instead  of  letting  the  characters 
do  their  own  talking;  but,  frankly,  I  don't  know 
how  to  tell  this  story.  I  am  sure  that  there  is  a  real 
story  here,  for  when  I  heard  it  it  stirred  me  deeply, 
and  two  other  men  with  me. 

But  simply  to  transcribe  a  man's  rambling  con 
versation  is  no  way  to  make  a  work  of  art  out  of  a 
handful  of  life. 

The  difference  between  a  story  and  a  narrative 
seems  to  be  about  the  same  as  that  between  a  lump 
of  potter's  clay  and  a  finished  design.  Life  should 
be  rolled  on  the  wheel  till  it  takes  shape  and  polish 
and  carries  as  well  the  style  of  the  potter. 

There  are  thousands  of  possible  shapes,  from  little 
tear  jars  that  may  be  carried  in  the  bosom,  to  great 
platters  that  will  carry  a  garnished  boar's  head  or  a 
peacock  in  full  uniform. 

Be  the  design  what  it  may,  it  should  hold  water  or 
something,  begin  somewhere,  end  somewhere,  exploit 
an  idea,  and  reveal  a  constructive  purpose  apart 
from  the  virtue  of  the  material.  This  story  might 
be  handled  a  hundred  ways,  and  I  have  tried  a  dozen 
forms,  but  none  of  them  seems  to  be  able  to  contain 
it  entire.  What  is  appropriate  to  one  phase  is  in- 

237 


"MOMMA" 

adequate  to  another.  It  is  hard  to  combine  a  domes 
tic  vessel  with  a  chalice. 

A  story  may  conceal  a  moral,  but  it  ought  to  point 
it  very  vaguely,  if  at  all.  Or,  moral-less  soever,  if 
it  whiles  away  an  otherwise  stupid,  lonesome  hour, 
it  has  achieved  something  fine. 

If  it  only  gently  massages  the  heart,  or  soothes  it 
as  with  a  familiar  tune,  or  takes  it  back  home,  or 
sends  it  off  about  its  own  imaginings,  it  does  well. 

This  story,  properly  made,  could  do  any  or  all  of 
these  things,  but  it  stumps  me.  How  can  I  finish 
it  who  cannot  even  begin  it? 

I  had  thought  of  combining  a  bright,  picturesque, 
and  homely  atmosphere  with  the  Horatian  canon  of 
commencing  in  the  middle,  thus: 

Her  feet  on  the  ladder  were  neither  small  nor  shapely  nor  yet 
prettily  shod,  but  he  hoped  that  the  rest  of  her  might  prove 
more  charming  as  she  backed  down  to  earth  again  from  the 
russet-and-gold-starred  green  firmament  of  the  apple  tree. 

The  arm  that  next  appeared  held  up  a  gingham  apron  to  bring 
along  a  heap  of  apples  chosen  from  this  tree  of  the  Hesperides. 

But  the  arm  was  not  young,  nor  the  bosom  that  followed. 
The  pathos  of  age  was  in  the  throat,  and  the  face  that  came 
down  last  was  weather-wrung  and  sorrow-beaten,  yet  very  kind 
withal.  And  to  the  waiting  stranger  it  was  blessed  with  the 
aureole  of  kinship.  He  knew  the  woman  instantly  for  one  of  his 
own  people.  And  as  she  turned  her  head  and  glanced  to  see 
who  stood  at  the  ladder's  foot,  she  stared  with  a  terror  of  recog 
nition,  gave  a  little  cry,  and  let  her  apron  go.  The  apples 
drummed  on  the  ground  and  bounced  about  the  grass  as  she 
called: 

"Tommy  Farley!    It's  you! " 

"Yes." 

She  ran  and  hugged  the  man  no  longer  young,  as  if  he  were 
still  a  child,  and  laughed. 

"Oh,  I'd  know  you  anywhere  by  your  mother's  eyes!" 

He  drew  away  from  her  coldly,  and  demanded: 

238 


A  STORY  I  CAN'T  WRITE 

"Where  is  my  mother?  Why  didn't  she  ever  come  back  to 
find  me?" 

The  old  woman's  smile  turned  to  a  grimace  of  ancient  pain, 
and  she  said: 

''That's  a  strange  story,  Tommy  Farley." 

But  by  the  time  I  had  got  thus  far,  I  felt  that  I 
was  on  the  wrong  road.  It  seemed  intolerably  awk 
ward  to  turn  time  back  on  its  creaking  hinges  by 
the  rickety  machinery  of  oldfangled  authors.  Be 
sides,  there  was  no  significance  to  the  story.  It  had 
no  thesis,  no  concept  to  exploit.  It  was  just  an 
empty  narrative  of  something  odd  that  happened  to 
certain  people. 

It  seemed  advisable  to  announce  a  text  and  illus 
trate  it.  So  this  began  to  spread  itself  on  the  sheet : 

What  is  freedom,  and  what  is  happiness?  These  are  more 
vital  questions  than  even  Pilate's  "What  is  truth?"  which  he 
asked,  "and  would  not  stay  for  an  answer" — knowing,  no  doubt, 
that  there  is  none. 

But  a  certain  man,  very  much  of  the  twentieth  century,  look 
ing  like  a  cartoon  of  success,  and  most  luxuriously  ensconced  in 
the  drawing-room  of  the  Pullman  car,  was  saying  to  his  equally 
prosperous  companions: 

"I  never  was  really  happy  or  really  free  except  when  I  was 
five  years  old  and  my  mother  lost  me  and  never  found  me.  I 
sold  newspapers  and  blacked  boots  and  slept  in  an  alley.  I  was 
free  then,  and  happy — till  I  froze  my  feet  after  two  years  of 
being  my  own  master." 

This  beginning  would  manifestly  never  do,  with 
its  pomposity,  its  philosophical  quality,  and  its 
thinly  disguised  attempt  to  startle.  If  one  is  going 
to  be  literary,  he  might  as  well  go  the  whole  hog. 
So  I  made  another  start,  with  a  frank  allegory  set 
at  the  head,  like  one  of  those  poems  Sir  Walter  Scott 
and  Kipling  and  others  quoted,  or  wrote  to  quote: 

239 


"MOMMA" 

As  God  was  going  along  a  lonely  road  one  day,  he  met  a  little 
girl  carrying  a  lighted  candle  and  a  pitcher  of  water. 

And  God  stopped  her  and  said: 

"Whither  are  you  bound,  my  child,  and  why  do  you  carry  the 
pitcher  and  the  candle?" 

And  the  little  girl  replied: 

"With  the  candle  I  intend  to  set  fire  to  heaven,  and  with  the 
pitcher  of  water  I  shall  put  out  the  fires  of  hell." 

God  smiled  and  said — 

Plainly  this  was  too  formidable.  There  is  no  real 
art  or  friendship  in  killing  off  the  reader  before  the 
story  has  a  chance.  Such  a  beginning  would  be  like 
shouting  "Fire!"  in  a  theater  just  as  the  overture 
starts.  There  would  be  no  audience  left  for  the 
play. 

A  love  interest  is  supposed  to  be  necessary  to 
fictional  success,  though  it  is  amazing  how  many 
immensely  prosperous  stories  have  got  along  fa 
mously  without  any. 

Still,  it  might  be  worth  while  to  bait  the  hook  with 
one  of  these  glittering  minnows: 

As  big,  handsome  Tom  Farley  gazed  at  the  beautiful  girl 
whom  he  looked  upon  as  the  fairest  prize  among  all  his  ambi 
tious  dreams — and  such  a  prize;  young,  exquisite,  intellectual, 
aristocratic,  the  adored  of  all  adorers,  the  idolized  daughter  of 
wealth,  besought  by  men  of  title  and  power — he  thought  to  him 
self:  "Though  she  seems  to  be  not  altogether  indifferent  to  my 
attentions,  and  although  I  can  offer  her  a  position  in  life  not 
inferior  to  her  own  proud  station,  what  would  she  say,  what 
would  her  haughty  parents  say,  if  they  knew  by  what  devious 
ways  I  have  arrived  at  success?  Would  she  consent  to  be  mine 
if  I  told  her  just  who  I  am?  Indeed,"  he  pondered,  with  a 
strange  smile,  "I  cannot  tell  her  who  I  am,  for  I  do  not  know." 

This  is  plainly  contemptible.  In  sheer  desperation 
I  made  a  try  at  beginning  at  the  last  place  on  earth 

240 


A  STORY  I  CANT  WRITE 

one  expects  or  desires  a  story  to  begin — the  begin 
ning.     Hence  this: 

The  five-year-old  boy  in  the  deserted  railroad  station  tried  to 
remember  that  big  men  do  not  blubber. 

But  the  hours  had  been  long  since  his  mother  left  him  on  the 
bench  and  made  him  promise  not  to  move  till  she  came  back 
from  the  few  moments'  shopping  that  she  must  do  before  they 
resumed  their  journey.  The  few  minutes  had  dragged  into  an 
hour,  two  hours,  five,  ten.  Hunger,  fear,  dismay,  had  tormented 
him  in  turn  and  all  together. 

And  now  the  station  master  had  closed  the  ticket  window  and 
put  out  the  light  in  his  office.  He  was  about  to  blow  out  the 
last  dreary  coal-oil  lamp  in  the  waiting  room  when  he  discovered 
the  lonely  child. 

He  whistled,  "Whew!"  and  chirped,  "Hello,  there!"  and 
shuffled  over  to  ask  questions. 

But  the  boy  knew  no  answers  to  any  questions  except  his 
name,  which  was  "Tommy  Farley,  sir."  He  did  not  know  the 
town  he  came  from,  for  he  had  been  in  many  towns.  He  did 
not  know  the  name  of  the  town  he  was  in.  He  did  not  know 
the  town  he  was  bound  for,  if  it  was  a  town.  He  had  been  told 
that  his  father  was  there,  a  soldier,  wounded  in  a  big  battle,  and 
needing  his  mother's  and  his  son's  help. 

That  was  the  extent  of  his  information,  except  as  to  his  appe 
tite,  his  fear,  and  his  wild  longing  for  his  mother's  arms.  He 
confessed  that  he  had  run  away  from  her  once  or  twice  and  been 
mighty  glad  to  get  back.  But  she  had  never  run  away  from 
him  before. 

The  station  master  screwed  up  his  face.  This  was  not  the 
first  child  that  had  been  abandoned  there.  Strange  people  on 
strange  errands  for  strange  motives  flowed  through  that  build 
ing  or  tarried  between  trains. 

This  commencement  is  not  so  bad,  but  it  has  all 
the  irritating  earmarks  of  a  mystery  story  with  the 
solution  withheld,  like  an  orange  behind  the  back, 
while  the  reader  is  teased  on  and  on  to  the  point  of 
rage. 

This  story  does  not  belong  in  any  of  these  galleries, 
241 


"MOMMA" 

and  I  am  in  despair  of  handling  it  at  all  as  either  a 
work  of  high  art  or  a  time  whiler  or  even  a  pot  boiler. 

Yet  it  seems  a  pity  to  deny  it  to  you  just  because 
I  cannot  make  it  wieldy.  And  I  am  tempted  to  give 
up  trying,  to  cease  the  loathsome  obtrusion  of  the 
first  person,  and  frankly  turn  the  raw  material  over 
to  you.  Perhaps  you  or  somebody  else  can  make  a 
story  of  it. 

Browning,  finding  at  an  old  bookstall  the  report 
of  an  ancient  murder  trial,  offered  it  to  Hawthorne 
and  to  others  as  material  for  a  novel  or  what  not, 
but,  having  offered  it  in  vain  with  no  takers,  took  it 
and  made  of  it  one  of  the  most  marvelous  of  human 
achievements,  The  Ring  and  the  Book. 

Hopeless  of  any  such  accomplishment,  I  publish 
to  whoso  wants  it  this  record  of  an  American  life  as 
the  man  who  lived  it  told  it  piecemeal  more  or  less 
reluctantly  to  a  few  casual  acquaintances  that  shared 
with  him  a  drawing-room  on  an  afternoon  express 
from  Washington  to  New  York.  The  words  are  not 
exact,  but  nearly,  for  they  impressed  us,  and  I  made 
notes  of  them  soon  after. 

Mr.  Thomas  J.  Farley  (to  give  him  another  name) 
had  been  with  the  President  that  morning,  and  had 
seen  him  go  to  the  united  Houses  of  Congress  and 
deliver  his  farewell  address  before  he  sailed  for  France 
and  the  Peace  Conference. 

He  described  the  astonishing  spectacle  of  the  Presi 
dent  standing  before  the  blended  Senators  and  Repre 
sentatives,  one-half  of  whom  rose  and  applauded, 
one-half  of  whom  kept  their  seats  in  silent  resentment. 

The  talk  drifted  from  the  scene  to  the  late  war, 
and  Mr.  Farley  wondered  if  his  son  would  ever  come 

242 


A  STORY  I  CANT  WRITE 

back  alive  or  not,  for  the  vast  and  belated  casualty 
lists  and  the  mountains  of  undelivered  mail  might 
leave  him  in  doubt  for  months. 

It  was  this  that  wrung  from  his  aching  heart  the 
bitter  reflection: 

"I've  been  successful,  I  suppose.  I've  made 
money  and  had  friends,  and  I've  been  doing  my  bit 
in  a  high  position  at  the  capital,  and  yet  I  never  was 
really  happy  or  really  free  except  when  I  was  five 
years  old  and  my  mother  lost  me  and  never  found 
me.  I  sold  newspapers  and  blacked  boots  and  slept 
in  an  alley.  I  was  free  then,  and  happy — till  I  froze 
my  feet  after  two  years  of  being  my  own  master." 

Having  said  this,  he  relapsed  into  silence,  staring 
off  through  the  window  into  space  or  into  his  own 
past  and  his  lost  paradise. 

But  we  were  piqued  by  such  an  odd  situation  and 
we  asked  questions,  eliciting  answers  that  led  to  more 
questions  and  answers,  the  net  result  being  about 
as  follows,  if  you  will  omit  the  freight  of  quotation 
marks  and  imagine  that  Mr.  Farley  is  speaking: 

I  never  knew  who  I  was  or  where  I  came  from  till 
I  was  thirty-five  years  old.  I  knew  my  name,  be 
cause  a  child  is  usually  taught  that  first,  so  that  he 
can  tell  it  to  anybody  who  finds  him  when  he  is  lost. 

But  all  I  knew  was  my  name.  My  mother  had 
started  South  to  find  my  father.  He  was  a  soldier 
in  the  Union  army,  and  she  got  word  that  he  was 
lying  wounded  in  a  hospital. 

In  those  days,  Cincinnati  was  the  biggest  city  in 
the  country  west  of  New  York  and  Philadelphia — 
bigger  than  Chicago,  St.  Louis,  any  of  those  cities. 
It  was  during  the  Civil  War,  and  the  town  was 

243 


"MOMMA" 

packed  with  soldiers  going  and  coming,  relatives, 
contractors,  war  workers,  nurses,  crooks,  spies — pll 
sorts  of  people. 

My  mother  had  to  change  trains  there  after  a 
long  wait.  It  was  very  hot,  and  she  said  she  didn't 
want  to  take  me  out  in  the  sun.  She  had  to  buy 
some  things — I  don't  remember  what  they  were, 
but  she  left  me  on  a  bench  in  the  waiting  room  with 
an  apple  and  some  cookies  and  told  me  she'd  be 
back  soon. 

I  never  saw  her  again. 

At  midnight  the  station  agent  shut  up  shop  and 
took  me  home  with  him.  The  next  day  he  started 
out  to  find  what  had  happened  to  my  mother. 
There  was  no  trace  of  her,  no  explanation.  Nobody 
had  a  theory,  even,  or,  if  anybody  did,  I  was  too 
young  to  know  what  the  theory  was. 

The  station  master  was  kind  to  me  and  I  sat  in 
the  station  all  day,  hoping  my  mother  would  come 
back  or  send  some  word.  People  made  a  little  hero 
of  me  and  were  very  sympathetic;  but  after  four 
or  five  days  I  became  an  old  story. 

The  station  agent  didn't  mean  to  be  heartless,  but 
he  had  children  and  troubles  of  his  own.  Every 
body  had  troubles  of  his  own.  They  gave  me  up  as 
hopeless. 

There  I  was,  a  five-year-old  boy,  alone  in  that 
city,  without  a  friend.  I  was  scared,  hungry,  and 
about  as  unhappy  as  anybody  could  be. 

I  wandered  all  over  the  city,  asking  for  news  of 
my  mother  or  for  help.  And  didn't  get  it.  I'd  go 
up  to  a  man  and  say: 

"Please,  mister,  I've  lost  my  mother.  I've  got 
no  father.  I — " 

244 


A  STORY  I  CANT  WRITE 

And  he  would  move  on  or  poke  a  dime  at  me. 
Women  were  the  same.  Nobody  paid  any  attention 
to  me.  It  sounds  funny,  but  it  was  true.  And  it 
wasn't  that  people  were  heartless.  They  had 
troubles  of  their  own.  They'd  been  fooled  by  too 
many  little  beggars  and  sniveling  newsboys.  Some 
of  them  would  take  a  ten-cent  chance  on  being  fooled 
and  would  toss  me  a  dime.  But  they  wouldn't  stop 
and  listen  or  lend  me  a  hand. 

I  don't  know  where  I  slept  or  where  I  went  the 
first  few  days,  but  one  day  when  I  was  standing  on 
the  street,  crying  my  eyes  out,  a  newsboy  came  up 
to  me  and  asked  me  what  was  the  matter.  I  told 
him,  and  he  said: 

"You  come  along  with  me.  I  got  a  good  place 
to  live,  and  I  make  good  money,  and  I  need  a  partner. 
I'll  set  you  up  in  business  with  a  shoe  box." 

I  went  along  with  him,  and  there  my  happiness 
began,  for  I  led  a  life  of  industry  and  prosperity.  If 
the  day  was  bright  I  got  a  lot  of  boots  to  black,  and 
ate  three  big  meals.  If  it  happened  to  be  muggy, 
business  was  bad  and  I  didn't  eat  so  much. 

I  slept  in  an  old  piano  box,  in  an  old  shed,  up  a 
back  alley.  Nobody  told  me  when  to  get  up.  No 
body  made  me  go  to  school,  or  wash  my  neck,  or  do 
this  or  not  do  that,  or  told  me  when  to  go  to  bed,  or 
who  to  play  with.  I  was  my  own  master  and  I 
hadn't  a  worry  on  earth. 

Now  I  have  my  home,  my  children,  my  money 
affairs,  responsibilities,  politics,  sickness — I  don't 
know  whether  my  boy  will  ever  come  back  from 
France.  Everything  worries  me  now,  but  then — 

I  learned  one  thing — how  to  memorize.  The  boy 
who  helped  me  out — Poke  Swinton — was  a  very  good 

245 


"MOMMA" 

boy  and  very  religious.  He  went  every  Sunday  to 
a  mission.  I  was  too  lazy,  but  he  would  come  back 
and  repeat  to  me  what  he  had  heard.  There  was  a 
queer  old  preacher  there  who  talked  in  parables. 
One  of  them  I  remember  just  as  Poke  told  it  to  me. 

As  God  was  going  along  a  lonely  road  one  day,  he  met  a  little 
girl  carrying  a  lighted  candle  and  a  pitcher  of  water. 

And  God  stopped  her,  and  said: 

"Whither  are  you  bound,  my  child,  and  why  do  you  carry  the 
pitcher  and  the  candle?" 

And  the  little  girl  replied: 

"With  the  candle  I  intend  to  set  fire  to  heaven,  and  with  the 
pitcher  of  water  I  shall  put  out  the  fires  of  hell." 

God  smiled,  and  said: 

"Foolish  child!  would  you,  even  if  you  could,  destroy  both 
the  abode  where  the  virtuous  enter  into  bliss  and  the  place  of 
torment  for  the  guilty?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  child. 

"But  wherefore,"  God  asked,  "and  to  what  purpose?" 

And  the  girl  replied: 

"I  would  destroy  both  heaven  and  hell,  so  that  men  should 
learn  to  do  the  right  without  hope  of  reward  or  fear  of  pun 
ishment." 

There  were  a  lot  of  other  parables,  and  there  were 
the  war  extras,  and  all  the  big  doings  of  the  time. 
I  was  happy  as  a  king  ought  to  be,  only  that  kings 
have  responsibilities  and  duties,  and  people  to  tell 
them  what  to  do.  But  I  hadn't.  I  was  well  and 
strong  and  I  didn't  know  what  trouble  was  till  the 
second  year.  That  was  a  bitter  winter,  and  my  feet 
froze.  I  say  now  that  I  was  happy  then,  but  of 
course  I  had  my  ups  and  downs.  The  way  I  froze 
my  feet  proves  that. 

In  the  second  winter  in  the  alley  I  took  notice  of 
the  shops  at  Christmas-time,  and  on  Christmas  Eve, 

246 


A  STORY  I  CANT  WRITE 

as  Poke  and  I  were  wandering  up  and  down  the 
streets  we  came  to  a  Sunday-school  celebration. 

Crowds  of  children  were  going  in,  and  Poke  and 
I  went  along.  There  was  a  Christmas  tree  loaded 
down  with  gifts,  and  a  Santa  Claus,  and  little  girls 
in  white  to  carry  the  presents  to  the  children  as  the 
names  were  called. 

The  superintendent  announced  that  there  was  a 
present  for  every  good  child.  So  I  was  convinced 
that  there  was  one  for  me,  for  I  had  been  a  good  boy, 
and  I  knew  it. 

Well,  they  took  the  presents  off  the  tree  and  read 
the  names.  "Johnny  Jones."  A  boy  would  pop  up 
and  get  his  pair  of  skates,  or  his  knife,  or  whatever 
it  was.  "Susie  Brown."  A  little  girl  would  pop  up 
and  get  her  doll,  or  whatever  she  got. 

Well,  it  went  on  that  way  for  an  hour,  and  I  ex 
pected  every  next  name  to  be  mine.  But  they 
stripped  the  tree  at  last  and  there  was  nothing  for 
me  and  Poke.  Every  child  there  got  something  but 
us  two. 

So  we  went  back  to  our  alley.  It  was  bitter  cold 
and  I  was  crushed  with  disappointment.  In  spite 
of  my  six  years  and  my  independence,  I  shuffled 
along  through  the  snow,  crying  like  a  baby. 

Poke  tried  to  console  me.     He  said: 

"  Aw,  I  don't  believe  that  was  the  real  Santa  Claus 
at  all.  I've  always  heard  that  Santa  Claus  comes 
down  the  chimbly,  and  you  hang  up  your  stockin's, 
and  he  puts  something  in." 

"Have  you?  Does  he?"  I  sniffled;  and  my  hopes 
blossomed  out  again. 

That  night,  instead  of  sleeping  in  my  stockings  as 
usual,  I  hung  them  up  on  the  edge  of  the  box  I  slept 

247 


"MOMMA" 

in.  And  Christmas  morning  I  found  Santa  Claus 
had  left  me  a  pair  of  frozen  feet.  There  was  nothing 
in  the  stockings  but  the  same  old  holes. 

I  didn't  suffer  so  very  much  from  my  feet  till  the 
first  warm  days  of  spring,  and  then  they  felt  as  if 
iron  claws  were  tearing  them  to  pieces. 

I  was  standing  on  a  corner  one  day,  crying  with 
the  pain,  lifting  one  foot  and  then  another,  and  going 
nearly  crazy.  Everybody  went  by  without  bother 
ing  even  to  ask  what  I  was  crying  about,  till  finally 
one  tall,  solemn  man  stopped,  and  said: 

"My  son,  why  are  thee  crying?" 

"Because  me  feet  was  froze,"  I  said. 

"Why  does  thee  not  go  home  to  thy  father  and 
mother?"  says  he. 

"Because  I  'ain't  got  none,"  says  I. 

Then,  instead  of  walking  on,  he  heard  me  out,  and 
said: 

"Will  thee  come  with  me?" 

He  took  me  to  a  Quaker  mission  for  orphans,  and 
my  feet  were  taken  care  of  by  a  doctor,  and  I  was 
put  into  the  first  bed  I  had  slept  in  for  two  years. 
The  people  were  kind  to  me,  and  by  and  by  an  old 
farmer  came  to  the  mission  and  asked  if  I  would 
come  with  him  and  be  his  son. 

I  said,  "You  bet!"  and  he  adopted  me.  His 
name  was  Jemison  and  he  was  a  mighty  good  man. 
He  took  me  out  to  his  big  farm  in  Indiana  and  I 
lived  on  the  fat  of  the  land.  I  worked  hard  in  the 
fields,  early  and  late,  but  I  had  good  food  and  loving 
care,  and  I  grew  big  and  strong. 

The  home  was  very  religious,  and  I  had  to  quit 
swearing  and  chewing  tobacco.  We  went  to  the 
meeting  house  and  sat  there  in  quiet  meditation; 

248 


A  STORY  I  CANT  WRITE 

hardly  anybody  ever  spoke  at  all.  At  the  end  of 
the  silent  service  Pa  Jemison  would  rise  up  and  lead 
us  home. 

Of  course  the  Jemisons  were  Quakers  and  they 
hated  war,  but  right  through  the  middle  of  their 
farm  ran  the  state  road  and  I  used  to  watch  the 
people  go  by.  The  Civil  War  was  ended,  but  still 
it  was  all  uniforms,  uniforms.  Political  parades 
would  march  through,  and  torchlight  processions, 
and  nearly  everybody  in  old  uniforms — officers  on 
prancing  horses,  crippled  men  in  carriages,  but  it 
was  soldiers  everywhere,  and  brass  bands  playing 
march  songs. 

I  used  to  run  to  the  fence  to  watch  the  uniforms 
go  by.  I  got  a  great  ambition  to  be  a  soldier. 

When  I  was  fourteen  I  read  about  the  appoint 
ment  of  cadets  to  West  Point,  and  one  day  when  I 
was  in  town  with  pa  I  sneaked  off  and  talked  to  a 
Congressman  and  told  him  my  ambition.  He  smiled 
and  said  my  education  was  hardly  sufficient  for  me 
to  pass  the  entrance  examinations.  He  told  me 
what  I  ought  to  study. 

I  went  back  and  set  to  work  on  mathematics  and 
grammar  and  history.  Pa  was  glad  to  see  me  apply 
myself  of  evenings,  but  of  course  I  never  told  him 
what  I  was  working  for. 

A  year  or  so  later  I  read  that  competitive  ex 
aminations  for  West  Point  were  going  to  be  held 
in  town  the  next  day.  I  stole  a  horse  early  in  the 
morning  and  lit  out  for  town.  I  found  the  place 
and  told  the  new  Congressman  about  my  life  and 
my  ambition  to  be  a  soldier.  And  I  took  the 
examination. 

I  got  home  about  midnight,  put  up  the  horse,  and 
17  249 


"MOMMA" 

tried  to  sneak  into  the  house,  but  pa  was  waiting 
for  me. 

"Where  has  thee  been?"  he  says,  and  I  says: 

"Oh,  I  got  tired  of  work  and  I  just  went  to  town 
for  a  good  time.  I'm  back  now,  though." 

He  didn't  whip  me,  as  I  expected  he  would,  but 
he  just  said: 

"If  thee  had  asked  me  for  a  horse  thee  should  have 
had  it,  for  thee  works  hard  and  has  a  right  to  a  little 
pleasure,  if  it  be  honest  pleasure.  But  thee  was 
wrong  to  leave  us  without  a  word.  All  day  we  have 
feared  for  thee  and  searched  everywhere  for  thee 
lest  some  harm  had  befallen  thee.  Go  to  bed  now, 
but  never  again  be  so  cruel  with  those  that  love  thee." 

That  hurt  worse  than  a  whipping  and  I  felt  mighty 
mean.  A  few  days  after  that  there  was  a  letter  for 
me,  the  first  one  I  ever  had.  It  was  from  the  Con 
gressman  and  it  said  I  had  won  the  competition 
and  the  appointment  to  the  Military  Academy. 

I  don't  think  I  even  passed  the  examinations,  but 
they  took  an  interest  in  me.  Well,  I  had  to  tell  pa 
this,  and  I  gave  him  the  letter  and  told  him  I  had 
lied  when  I  said  I  went  to  town  for  a  good  time.  I 
said  I  wanted  to  be  a  soldier.  He  read  the  letter 
and  looked  very  sad,  and  then  he  said : 

"My  son,  when  thee  was  a  little  child  thy  mother 
abandoned  thee.  Who  took  thee  in  and  gave  thee 
a  home  and  love  and  care  and  religious  teaching?" 

"Thee  did,  pa,"  I  said. 

"Thee  knows  that  we  are  Friends;  that  we  hate 
war  and  all  the  works  thereof,  that  we  abhor  the 
thought  of  its  blood  and  butchery  and  unchristian 
cruelty.  And  now  our  own  son  would  be  a  soldier, 
would  learn  to  shoot  and  to  kill  and  make  that  his 

250 


A  STORY  I  CANT  WRITE 

business.  Thee  has  no  right  to  desert  us  who  never 
deserted  thee.  My  son,  do  not  do  this — this  un 
godly  thing." 

"All  right,  pa,"  I  said,  "I  won't." 

It  hurt.  I  had  a  soldier's  blood  in  me.  My 
father  was  a  soldier,  my  son  is  a  soldier,  and  I  wanted 
to  be  one. 

But  I  gave  it  up.  It  broke  my  heart,  but  I  felt 
I  had  no  right  to  break  the  hearts  of  the  people  who 
had  given  me  the  only  love  I  had  ever  known. 

I  stayed  on  the  farm  for  years.  Then  I  decided 
to  be  a  lawyer.  I  studied  in  the  office  of  the  Con 
gressman  who  offered  me  the  appointment  and  was 
admitted  to  the  bar,  and  I  moved  away  to  another 
state,  where  I  built  up  a  fair  practice.  But  politics 
interested  me,  and  finally  I  became  the  chairman  of 
the  State  Committee  of  my  party. 

A  reporter  interviewed  me  and  asked  about  my 
parents,  and  I  told  him  I  hadn't  any  or  didn't  know 
what  had  become  of  them.  He  wrote  quite  a  piece 
about  it,  and  it  was  copied  all  over  the  country. 

One  day  I  got  a  telegram  from  Freneau,  New  York. 
It  said: 

I  am  your  mother's  sister.    Please  communicate. 

CLARA  SHULL. 

I  communicated  with  the  first  train  east.  When 
I  got  to  Freneau  I  asked  about  the  Shulls.  I  was 
told  they  lived  on  a  farm  just  north  of  town. 

There  was  no  hack  at  the  station,  and  I  walked 
out,  trying  to  remember  the  village;  but  I  couldn't 
recall  anything  about  it.  Finally  I  saw  a  farmhouse 
and  felt  that  it  must  be  the  place.  The  doors  and 
windows  were  open,  but  there  was  nobody  at  home. 

251 


"MOMMA" 

I  heard  voices  in  the  orchard,  though,  and  I  walked 
out  there. 

Nobody  was  to  be  seen,  but  there  were  ladders 
up  the  trees  and  feet  on  the  ladders,  and  people  talk 
ing  to  one  another  as  they  picked  the  apples. 

As  I  came  near  a  woman  backed  down  a  ladder. 
She  had  an  apronfull  of  apples.  She  turned  her 
head  and  caught  sight  of  me.  She  let  her  apron  go 
and  the  apples  fell  to  the  ground.  She  came  hurry 
ing  after  them,  and  she  said: 

"You're  Tommy  Farley!  I'd  know  you  anywhere 
by  your  mother's  eyes." 

She  ran  to  hug  me,  but  I  was  angry.  All  my  child 
hood  loneliness  came  back  on  me,  and  I  kept  her 
away  while  I  said : 

"Where  is  my  mother  and  why  didn't  she  ever 
come  back  for  me  when  she  left  me  in  the  station?" 

"Oh,  my  poor  boy,  she  had  a  sunstroke  in  the 
street  and  was  taken  to  a  hospital  and  died  there 
without  ever  saying  a  word." 

I  put  my  arms  round  my  aunt  then,  and  cried  and 
cried.  I  was  a  hard  old  politician  of  thirty-five,  but 
I  wept  myself  out.  Then  I  grew  hot  again,  and  I 
said : 

"Why  didn't  you  ever  look  for  me?  You  were 
her  sister." 

She  sighed. 

"My  husband  was  what  they  called  a  'copper 
head,'  and  we  were  driven  out  of  the  state.  We  went 
to  Canada  and  stayed  till  after  the  war.  We  couldn't 
get  word,  and  afterward,  when  we  were  allowed  to 
come  back  to  this  country,  my  husband  went  to 
Cincinnati  to  bring  your  mother's  body  home  from 
the  Potter's  Field. 

252 


A  STORY  I  CANT  WRITE 

"They  had  learned  her  name  from  some  papers  in 
her  handbag,  but  they  didn't  know  of  her  boy. 
Cincinnati  was  in  a  terrible  state  then,  and  the  hos 
pitals  were  overcrowded.  And  when  my  husband 
asked  for  you  you  were  hopelessly  lost.  The  years 
went  on  and  on  till,  the  other  day,  we  happened  to 
read  your  story  in  the  paper,  and  I  telegraphed  you 
right  away." 

"And  I  came  right  away,"  I  said.  "But  my 
father — why  didn't  he  look  for  me?" 

"He  died  of  his  wounds." 

Well,  it  was  kind  of  pitiful  to  be  so  alone,  but  it 
helped  some  to  find  that  I  was  human  and  hadn't 
"just  growed."  When  we  were  quieted  down  a  little 
my  aunt  said: 

"But  what's  that  'J'  in  your  name?  The  paper 
calls  you  'Thomas  J.  Farley.' ' 

"I  took  that  name  from  Pa  Jemison,"  I  said. 
And  then  I  had  to  tell  her  all  about  him. 

Did  I  ever  hear  from  Poke  Swinton  again  ?  Funny 
thing  about  that.  A  few  years  ago  I  was  out  West 
with  a  group  of  big  railroad  men,  including  old  Jake 
Walker. 

We  were  standing  in  the  lobby  of  a  big  hotel  when 
somebody  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder.  I  turned  and 
saw  a  big,  strapping  giant  smiling  at  me.  He  said : 

"You  don't  know  me,  do  you?" 

I  had  to  say:  "I  can't  just  recall  you  at  the 
moment." 

He  said:  "Well,  you  slept  with  me  for  two 
years." 

"Poke  Swinton!"  I  shouted,  and  nearly  wrung 
his  hand  off. 

253 


"MOMMA" 

"What  are  you  doing  with  those  fellers?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I'm  out  on  a  little  railroad  business." 

"Well,  you  steer  clear  of  that  gang.  Old  Jake 
Walker  will  steal  every  cent  you've  got.  Have  you 
got  any?" 

"Not  much,"  I  said. 

"I  tell  you  what  you  do.  I  got  a  nice  safe  busi 
ness  here,  and  I'll  take  you  in  as  a  partner." 

He  took  me  out  to  his  place.  He  had  a  wholesale 
business  in  barbers'  supplies  and  begged  me  to  come 
in  with  him. 

I  told  him  I  couldn't,  and  I  told  Jake  Walker  what 
Poke  said  of  him.  Old  Jake  laughed  himself  sick 
and  insisted  on  seeing  the  store.  Poke  showed  him 
round,  and  old  Jake  was  very  complimentary,  but 
Poke  said: 

"Well,  I  can't  take  back  much  of  what  I  said." 

And  Jake  laughed  again. 

A  couple  of  years  ago  I  was  taken  suddenly  ill  in 
Pittsburgh.  I  went  to  the  hospital,  and  stayed  there 
for  months — like  to  have  died.  My  wife  and  daugh 
ter  came  to  be  with  me. 

It  got  into  the  papers  that  I  was  ill  there,  and  one 
day  a  letter  came  from  Poke.  It  said  he  had  read 
that  I  was  sick  in  hospital  and  he  guessed  I  was 
probably  broke.  He  had  saved  up  in  his  lifetime 
thirty-six  hundred  dollars,  and  he  inclosed  me  a 
check  for  half  of  it.  I  could  have  the  rest  of  it  if  I 
wanted  it. 

Well,  I  read  the  letter  and  looked  at  that  check 
for  eighteen  hundred  dollars,  and  I  cried.  And  my 
wife  read  it  and  she  cried,  and  my  daughter  read  it 
and — well,  we  had  a  great  old  cry. 

I  wouldn't  for  worlds  have  written  Poke  that  I 
254 


A  STORY  I  CANT  WRITE 

was  independent  of  his  fatherly  anxiety,  so  I  wrote 
him  that  I  was  just  as  much  obliged,  but  I  had  enough 
money  to  pay  my  doctors'  bills  and  the  hospital 
charges,  and  I  had  a  job  waiting  for  me  when  I  got 
well,  so  I  asked  him  to  keep  the  money  till  I  really 
needed  it,  and  sent  it  back.  I  hated  to  do  it,  too, 
because  I  knew  Poke  wanted  to  feel  that  he  still  had 
to  take  care  of  me  just  as  much  as  when  he  was  a 
little  newsboy  and  found  me  crying  on  the  street  for 
my  lost  mother. 

Well,  that's  my  story.  I've  succeeded  in  life  after 
a  fashion,  I  suppose.  I've  got  a  wife  and  a  daughter, 
and  a  son  who's  a  soldier.  I'm  here  in  Washington 
in  a  big  position,  and  I  guess  I'm  what  could  be 
called  a  successful  man.  But  I'm  worried  all  the 
time  about  something,  and  now  it's  wartimes  again 
and  my  boy  is  in  France.  He  may  be  lost  somewhere, 
as  my  father  was  and  as  I  was. 

So  that's  why  I  say  I  was  never  really  free  or  really 
happy  except  when  I  was  a  five-year-old  newsboy 
without  a  home  or  parents  or  anything —  Here's 
Philadelphia.  Let's  get  out  and  stretch  our  legs. 

But  at  Philadelphia  we  others  had  to  stop  off  for 
a  banquet,  and  we  left  him  to  continue  his  journey. 
We  wanted  to  ask  about  his  love  story,  for  he  must 
have  had  one,  with  that  wife,  that  doubtless  beauti 
ful  daughter,  and  that  heroic  son. 

But  his  train  would  not  wait. 

And  now  you  have  the  story  as  I  had  it.  There 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  lot  in  it,  a  lot  of  American  life 
and  significance.  But  as  for  telling  it  properly — I 
repeat,  it  is  too  much  for  me. 

255 


X 

THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 


ONLY  those  who  know  the  agonies  of  village  aris 
tocracy  in  a  land  where  it  is  unconstitutional 
to  hint  at  inequalities  can  fathom  the  heart  of  poor 
Mrs.  Milligrew  when  she  learned  to  what  depths  love 
had  dragged  the  lad  who  had  but  yesterday,  it  seemed, 
slid  out  of  her  lap,  never  to  climb  back  again. 

Nettie  Milligrew  was  a  born  party  goer  and  party 
giver,  and  she  glowed  with  pride  when  her  son  an 
nounced  his  intention  to  attend  the  Congregational- 
ist  sociable  on  Mrs.  Budlong's  lawn.  She  squealed 
with  delight  when  he  growled  that  he  maybe  might 
take  a  girl  p'raps.  But,  as  she  said  to  her  husband 
afterward,  "Oh,  the  horrow  of  it  when  he  told  me 
who  he  wanted  to  take!" 

She  had  wasted  on  the  solemn  little  rascal  for  his 
encouragement  one  of  those  smiles  of  approval  that 
she  ordinarily  saved  for  callers — one  of  her  very 
best-dressed  smiles.  She  had  even  called  him  by 
his  complete  name,  not  the  usual  "Ronnie." 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,  Ronald,"  she  scintil 
lated,  "and  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  give  you  the 
money  for  the  refreshments.  But  whom  is  the  little 
girl  you  are  going  to  take?"  Mrs.  Milligrew  almost 
never  used  "whom"  except  at  receptions. 

256 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

This  simple  question  produced  an  astounding 
effect  on  Ronald.  He  began  to  roll  his  eyeballs  as 
if  they  itched,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  scratch  them 
on  his  eyelids,  to  scour  the  entire  inside  of  his  head 
with  his  tongue.  He  twisted  in  what  looked  like  a 
violent  effort  to  roll  himself  up  in  himself  spirally, 
as  one  makes  lamplighters. 

"Stop  it!"  his  mother  cried.  "And  answer  me 
this  minute!" 

When,  at  length,  he  answered,  she  was  influenced 
to  an  activity  almost  the  reverse  of  his.  She  opened 
out.  Her  mouth  changed  from  a  fallen  brace  (*-* — .) 
to  an  upper-case  O,  while  her  eyes  became  two 
capital  Q's — Q  and  Q — and  her  hands  went  up  flatly 
in  an  Egyptian  amazement.  Yet  all  the  boy  had 
answered  was  the  name  of  a  little  girl. 

"Josie." 

"Josie  whom?     I  don't  know  any  Josies." 

"Josie  Mullett." 

"Not  the  Metropolitan  Market  man?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"But  she's — he's —  You  don't  mean  the  butcher 
— not  his  daughter?" 

"Yes,  ma'am;  you  bet,  ma'am!" 

"But,  my  child — really —  Oh  dear  what's  to 
become  of  us?" 

Mrs.  Milligrew  was  thinking  of  more  than  the 
immediate  tragedy.  She  had  never  forgotten  how 
her  own  mother  had  opposed  her  own  marriage  to 
Eben  L.  Milligrew,  a  mere  butter-and-eggist.  She 
often  reminded  her  husband  of  this. 

Mrs.  Milligrew's  mother's  grandmother  had  been 
a  Digney,  one  of  the  lumber  Digneys.  But  she  had 
run  away  with  the  son  of  the  Mitnick  family;  she 

257 


"MOMMA" 

had  descended  from  the  sawmill  Digneys  to  the 
windmill  Mitnicks.  And  her  daughter  had  com 
mitted  the  lapsus  jamilice  of  wedlock  with  the  Prud- 
dens,  who  were  in  coal  and  wood,  and  her  daughter 
had  drifted  on  down  to  butter  and  eggs.  And  now 
her  son — as  if  perfecting  an  evil  destiny — wanted  to 
go  on  into  meats,  poultry,  and  fresh  fish. 

Really,  it  seemed  to  be  the  doom  of  this  family  to 
be  forever  marrying  beneath  itself. 

It  was  time  to  stop  right  here.  Mrs.  Milligrew 
amazed  her  son  by  the  ferocity  of  her  behavior. 

"No;  you  cannot,  you  must  not,  you  shall  not!" 
she  stormed.  "I  will  not  give  you  a  penny  for  any 
such  foolishness." 

Ronald  mumbled. 

"I  got  m'  own  money  saved  up  from  mow'n'  the 
grass  all  summer." 

"It  makes  no  difference  what  you've  saved  from 
what.  Why,  her  people  don't  even  go  to  our  church, 
do  they?" 

"No'm.  Josie  goes  to  the  Unineted  Presbertur- 
rian,  like  her  folks  does." 

' ' So,  they're  not  even  Presbyterians !  Mere  U.P. 's. 
Why,  you  sha'n't  go;  you  simply  sha'n't!  Under 
stand  me  once  for  all." 

"But  I've  already  ast  her,  and  she  said  she 
would." 

This  was  more  desperation  than  defiance,  but,  to 
his  mother,  it  was  rebellion.  It  drove  her  to  her 
most  awful  threat. 

"Well,  I  shall  have  to  speak  to  your  father  about 
it  when  he  comes  home  from  the  store  to-night.  He 
probably  won't  let  you  go  at  all,  and  if  you're  not 
careful  he  will  give  you  a  good  whipping." 

258 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

To  irate  mothers,  all  threatened  whippings  are 
good;  and  some  are  better  than  others. 

Ronald  dropped  the  subject  and  vanished  into 
some  sulking  place. 

Mrs.  Milligrew,  like  the  dutiful  wife  she  was, 
usually  managed  to  meet  her  husband  at  the  top 
step  with  a  daily  household  trouble  that  knocked 
out  of  his  mind  any  worries  he  may  have  brought 
home  with  him  from  the  shop.  This  night,  having 
sold  an  unexpected  number  of  gross  of  eggs,  he 
brought  home,  as  a  well-earned  extravagance,  a  little 
pasteboard  pail  of  oysters. 

Mrs.  Milligrew,  as  other  Mid-Westerners  do, 
looked  upon  an  oyster  as  an  exotic  luxury  like  an 
artichoke  or  an  ortolan  but,  this  evening  she  caught 
sight  of  the  label  on  the  tiny  bucket : 

FROM  METROPOLITAN  MARKET 

BY  JOSEPH  MULLETT 
OYSTERS  R  IN  SEASON 

She  was  so  bemocked  by  the  coincidence  that  she 
almost  threw  the  oysters  away — almost. 

She  held  up  the  container  as  if  it  contained  poison, 
and  used  it  as  the  text  of  her  grievance  for  the  day. 
But  when  she  had  proclaimed  the  social  cloud  that 
overcast  her  sky,  Eben  Milligrew  just  laughed. 

"Aw,  shucks!  Let  the  kid  alone.  He's  got  to 
have  it  like  the  mumps  and  measles.  The  other  kids 
will  cure  him  of  any  such  foolishness.  If  he  shows 
up  with  a  girl,  she'll  go  home  alone,  or  I'm  no 
prophet." 

He  had  his  way,  but  not  his  prophecy.  For  Ron 
ald's  passion  was  so  dire  that  it  survived  every 
ordeal  in  a  long  series  of  ordeals. 

259 


"MOMMA" 

ii 

Getting  dressed  was  the  first  torment.  Ronald 
scrubbed  that  unseen  hinterland,  the  back  of  his 
own  neck.  He  twisted  a  washcloth  in  his  own  ears. 
He  lambasted  his  hair  with  a  brush  till  his  scalp 
tingled  and  his  cowlick  was  almost  cowed.  He 
even  made  a  painful  effort  to  disturb  the  ancient 
dregs  beneath  his  finger  nails. 

He  put  on  his  new  shoes;  so  tight  they  were,  too, 
that  they  made  him  feel  as  if  he  had  no  feet  at  all, 
just  wooden  stumps  full  of  toothache.  He  sweated 
an  Eton  collar  on  his  neck  and  worried  a  new  tie 
into  a  state  of  irremediable  senility. 

When  he  was  all  harnessed  he  was  afraid  to  brave 
the  front  door.  He  went  out  through  the  kitchen 
and  the  back  gate,  gingerly  up  the  rubbishy  alley, 
and  along  Blondeau  Street  like  an  escaping  thief. 

There  was  no  way,  though,  of  reaching  the  Mul- 
letts'  homely  home  without  going  through  the  whis 
tling  front  gate,  and  the  evening  was  not  yet  dark 
enough  to  conceal  him. 

Besides,  there  was  the  notorious  Mullett  dog  to 
negotiate.  Ronald  could  not  tell  whether  the  dog 
did  not  know  him  in  his  disguise  or  was  overjoyed 
by  his  elegance;  for  the  beast  barked  and  bounced 
round  him,  alternately  threatening  him  with  the 
slobbery  fangs  of  wrath  and  the  muddy  paws  of 
affection.  Ronald  was  not  sure  which  he  feared  the 
more.  He  dodged  the  animal  and  kept  it  off  by 
violent  gestures  and  fierce  commands  to  "Git  away 
from  here,  naow ! "  He  rang  the  bell  backward  while 
he  faced  the  dog. 

Josie  came  to  the  door  herself,  and  said,  "Hello, 

260 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

Ronnie!"  in  a  voice  of  awe.  She  was  in  a  state  of 
supreme  preparedness — as  slick  and  pink  and  frilly 
as  a  girl  in  a  valentine. 

Her  mother,  realizing  that  she  was  going  into 
society,  had  wrought  upon  her  and  her  get-up  as  if 
her  raiment  were  a  trousseau.  Her  frock  was  as 
simple  and  fashionable  a  garment  as  would  be  ex 
pected  of  a  butcheress.  Ronnie  had  a  startled  notion 
that  Josie  was  dressed  in  a  mass  of  that  scalloped 
paper  that  hung  from  the  butcher's  ceiling  as  a 
paradise  for  flies,  to  lure  them  from  the  wares  below. 

Josie's  father  came  out  on  the  porch  to  see  his 
daughter  off.  Ronald  hardly  knew  him.  This  was 
the  first  time  the  boy  had  ever  seen  Mr.  Mullett 
without  his  gory  apron  on  and  a  saw  or  a  knife  in 
his  fist.  He  seemed  to  be  a  very  mild  gentleman  in 
private  life,  and  he  pleaded  with  an  almost  womanish 
anxiety : 

"Now,  bub,  see  that  you  take  good  care  of  my 
little  girl." 

This  would  have  been  a  most  flattering  remark 
but  for  that  abominable,  belittling  "bub." 

Ronald  stammered,  "Oh  yes,  ma'am — sir,"  and 
made  off  with  his  ward. 

He  nearly  broke  her  neck  on  the  steps,  and  he  let 
the  front  gate  slam  Josie  on  the  stummick.  And 
there  still  remained  the  walk  to  Mrs.  Budlong's. 
Ronald  clumped  along  as  glumly  as  if  he  had  been 
married  to  this  squaw  for  years,  and  Josie  minced  as 
if  every  crack  in  the  boards  were  an  abyss. 

To  the  casual  passerby  the  twain  were  the  least 
terrifying  things  in  the  world — a  little  boy  and  a 
little  girl,  brother  and  sister,  probably,  going  along 
a  stumbly  sidewalk  to  a  little  festival  in  a  little  yard. 

261 


"MOMMA" 

But  to  themselves  it  was  an  epic  enterprise,  as 
momentous  a  foray  as  if  Ronald  were  Sir  Ronald, 
knight,  escorting  Josefina,  ladye  gent,  through  a 
dragon-infested  world.  The  terror  of  public  obser 
vation  that  they  shared  in  common  was  as  nothing 
to  the  terror  they  mutually  inspired.  Previously 
they  had  played  together  in  the  school  recesses  like 
two  children  playing  together,  but  they  were  as  afraid 
of  each  other  in  full  uniform  as  if  they  had  put  on 
magic  garments  of  fear. 

The  sight  of  the  Budlong  lawn,  however,  restored 
them  to  life;  for  magic  had  been  at  work  there  also. 
To  their  meager-experienced  eyes  the  tawdry  spec 
tacle  was  an  elfin  realm.  The  Chinese  lanterns 
swinging  in  the  wind  were  jubilant  bells  of  scarlet 
and  crimson  flame,  summoning  happy  people  to  a 
mystic  space  where  princesses  in  iridescent  raiment 
moved  among  shadowy  squires.  The  kitchen  tables, 
under  their  cloths  laden  with  merchandise,  were 
banquet  boards  groaning  with  royal  lusciousnesses. 

As  they  came  up  they  could  hardly  find  the  hero 
ism  to  join  the  darkling  multitude;  but,  fortunately, 
one  of  the  lanterns  caught  fire.  There  was  a  leaping 
of  blazes  among  dark  leaves,  a  scurry  of  gasping 
women,  a  rush  of  intrepid  men,  a  snatching  and 
stamping,  and  a  subsidence  of  general  relief.  Into 
this  hurly-burly  the  children  slipped  with  natural 
eagerness,  and  escaped  the  anguish  of  an  entrance. 

Once  among  his  cronies,  Ronald  promptly  aban 
doned  Josie  to  her  own  devices.  He  forgot  his  cere 
monial  attire  and  joined  the  other  boys  in  the  varied 
mischiefs  that  make  grown-ups  apologize  for  being 
parents.  He  made  a  nuisance  of  himself  with  the 
rest,  and  never  thought  of  Josie  till  it  came  time  for 

262 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

"refreshmunce."  He  was  sorry  he  had  burdened 
himself  with  a  dragging  anchor,  but  his  sense  of  duty 
won  the  battle  with  his  sense  of  fun,  and  he  proceeded 
to  do  the  handsome.  When  he  looked  for  Josie  he 
could  not  find  her. 

All  the  other  girls  were  gobbling  disgracefully, 
stowing  cargoes  of  ice  cream  into  their  smirks  and 
prolonging  the  ecstasy  to  disgust.  It  annoyed  him 
to  see  them  lick  the  chorklet  frosting  off  their  fingers. 

He  asked  some  of  them  if  they  had  seen  Josie, 
and  they  sneered  at  him  across  their  smeary  spoons. 
They  were  their  mothers'  daughters,  and  carried  on 
the  instinct  of  conservation  and  social  category  as  well 
as  of  sectarian  religion.  Josie  did  not  even  belong 
to  their  church. 

He  found  Josie  hiding  in  a  corner  of  what  Mrs. 
Budlong  called  "the  lib'ary,"  because  there  was  a 
bookcase  there.  And  there,  alone,  in  a  big  chair,  was 
Josie,  as  wildly  pretty  as  a  captured  rabbit  with 
timorous  eyes  and  tremulous  nose. 

She  had  been  snubbed  and  neglected  and  backed 
out  of  cliques  till  she  had  taken  refuge  in  obscurity. 
She  greeted  Ronald  with  a  timid  "Hello!"  but  when 
he  asked  her  to  come  on  out  and  have  s'micecream  'n' 
cake,  she  shook  her  head  till  her  long  curls  lashed 
her  cheeks. 

"I  wouldn't  wish  for  any,  please — much  obliged," 
she  murmured. 

A  native  chivalry  made  his  heart  blaze  with  rage 
at  a  cruel  world,  and  there  was  warmth  enough  left 
to  give  a  peculiar  gallantry  to  his  gruff: 

"I'll  bring  you  some." 

He  hurried  out  to  the  table  and  demanded  two 
plates  of  ice  cream  and  two  pieces  of  cake.  He 

263 


"MOMMA" 

slapped  his  whole  thirty  cents  down  with  a  Monte 
Carlo  majesty,  and  bore  away  the  loot  with  the 
splendid  intention  of  a  swell  hastening  from  a  lordly 
buffet  with  an  ice  for  a  marquise.  He  jiggled  part 
of  a  slithery  cone  off  one  of  the  plates,  and  nobly 
insisted  that  the  lesser  dish  was  his. 

Josie  pretended  that  she  preferred  the  other  plate, 
but  graciously  yielded  to  the  Ronald's  exquisite 
compulsion. 

"Aw— go  on!" 

As  soon  as  she  had  fed,  Josie  gained  the  courage 
to  say  that  she  thought  she'd  ought  to  be  going  along 
on  home  now,  because  it  was  getting  so  awful  late. 
Ronald  deferred  to  her  whim,  concealing  his  regret 
at  leaving  his  fellow  bandits  to  their  pranks. 

He  and  Josie  stole  away  without  attracting  the 
attention  they  feared,  and  he  escorted  her  along  the 
gloomy  walk  with  an  excellent  simulation  of  bravado. 
He  held  her  slim  arm  in  a  firm  grip,  not  so  much  to 
keep  hold  of  her  as  to  keep  her  at  a  distance. 

He  had  heard,  of  course,  fearsome  stories  and 
ideas  from  the  more  ribald  boys,  but  he  had  no  more 
inclination  to  put  his  arm  round  Josie's  complicated 
sash  than  to  thrust  it  into  the  kitchen  stove.  As 
for  trying  to  kiss  her,  he  would  rather  have  assailed 
his  uncle  Amos,  the  one  with  the  prickly  whiskers. 

He  got  her  to  her  front  steps,  and  waited  till  she 
had  fished  the  key  from  under  the  door  mat  and 
found  the  keyhole.  He  noted,  in  a  vaguely  blissful 
stupor,  that  she  was  eerily  sweet  to  see  as  the  moon 
light  revealed  her  turning  to  whisper: 

"I  had  a  nawful  nice  time." 

He  faltered: 

"So  d'L    G'-night!" 

264 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

Then  he  found  himself  alone,  with  all  that  distance 
to  go  to  the  front  gate  and  no  assurance  that  the 
bloodcurdling,  yelping  dog  was  chained. 

The  gate  let  him  out  into  the  street,  where  the 
trees  hissed  and  waved  their  boughs  like  tossing 
horns,  where  every  shadow  probably  contained  a 
lurking  burglar,  and  where  the  patches  of  moonlight 
and  lamplight  were  even  more  perilous,  since  they 
would  disclose  him  to  the  gruesome  footpads  that 
follow  little  boys  home  at  night  and  always  almost 
spring  out  upon  them. 

Ronald  wondered,  then,  as  many  an  older  boy  has 
wondered,  going  home  alone  after  a  sweethearting, 
why  love  should  be  able  to  lure  a  fellow  into  such 
hazardous  and  costly  excursions  from  common  sense. 


in 

The  next  morning  he  admired  himself  in  the  mirror 
as  a  successful  courtier  with  a  triumphant  love  affair 
on.  This  self-presented  D.  S.  C.  sustained  him 
through  the  smart  flippancies  of  his  father  at  the 
breakfast  table. 

"Well,  how's  young  Mr.  Mullett  this  morning? 
When  does  your  name  go  up  on  the  sign:  'Joseph 
Mullett  &  Son-in-Law?'  Do  we  get  a  discount  on 
our  beefsteak  and  sausage?" 

Ronald  smiled  wryly  at  all  this,  but  his  mother's 
despondency  worried  him.  What  Ronald  could  not 
understand  was  his  mother's  baffling  illusion  that 
there  was  something  ignoble  about  the  art  of 
butchery. 

It  was,  to  Ronald,  the  most  heroic  of  professions. 
From  his  earliest  memories  of  accompanying  his 

18  ,  265 


"MOMMA" 

mother  on  marketing  tours  through  the  bazaars  of 
Carthage,  of  all  the  places  they  visited,  the  butcher 
shop  was  the  only  one  that  inspired  him  with  a  sense 
of  nobility.  Here  were  bought  and  sold  not  things 
made  or  gathered  with  hands — bread,  calico,  but 
tons,  lamps,  stoves,  pills,  lotions,  saddles,  cheeses, 
flours,  candies,  and  trinkets — but  living  flesh  made 
dead  to  keep  people  alive. 

This  shop  was  cool  on  the  hottest  days,  and  there 
was  sawdust  to  scumble  the  shoes  in.  The  walls 
were  hung  with  fowl,  in  their  feathers  or  naked,  with 
hams,  with  chains  of  sausage,  and  with  the  incredibly 
long  looped-up  tongues  of  oxen. 

There  was  a  screen  door  to  keep  the  flies  from 
getting  out,  and  the  ceiling  was  festooned  with  tinted 
papers  cut  in  marvelous  curves,  a  rosy  bower  for  the 
flies  to  go  to  when  they  were  scared  off  the  meat  or 
tired  of  it. 

In  contrast  with  the  extreme  daintiness  of  this  fly 
club  were  the  trunks  of  enormous  trees  mounted  as 
chopping  blocks.  And  there  were  marble  slabs  and 
huge  bins  of  ice  where  the  fresh  fish  sprawled,  sad- 
eyed  water  people  in  miracles  of  pliant,  radiant  chain 
armor,  their  mouths  always  ajar  in  an  expression  of 
excusable  despondency. 

There  were  hooks  and  hooks,  and  all  sorts  of  things 
depended  from  them — sometimes  a  whole  half  of  an 
ox,  or  a  sheep  with  its  insides  all  out;  a  wonderful 
interior  view,  something  like  a  church. 

Now  and  then  there  were  hogs,  martyrized  down 
ward  like  St.  Peter,  or  little  pigs  looking  so  much 
alive  they  might  be  expected  to  run  away  if  their 
feet  were  not  tied  as  a  precaution. 

Now  came  the  dark  era  when  Ronnie  dared  not 
266 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

mention  butcher  shops  at  home,  for  fear  his  father 
would  make  fun  of  him  or  his  mother  shame. 

The  whole  neighborhood,  in  fact,  reeked  of  Ron 
ald's  love  affair. 

He  slapped  several  little  girls'  faces,  and  whipped, 
or  was  whipped,  by  various  boys  of  assorted  sizes, 
before  his  romance  became  commonplace  enough  to 
be  let  alone. 

His  mother  no  longer  took  him  on  her  marketing 
tours.  In  fact,  she  took  her  trade  to  another  shop. 
Mr.  Mullett  wondered  why,  but  set  it  down  to  the 
habit  of  people  to  change  their  homes,  climates, 
clothes,  churches,  doctors,  lawyers,  lovers,  and 
tradespeople.  We  are  all  Bedouin  in  something, 
though  we  stick  never  so  fast  at  home. 

As  for  Ronald,  nothing  could  have  pleased  him 
better  than  his  mother's  abstinence  from  shopping 
at  the  Metropolitan  Market,  for  then  he  was  sure 
that  she  would  never  catch  him  there. 

Mr.  Mullett  did  not  mind  his  presence  during  the 
hours  when  shoppers  were  infrequent.  Sometimes 
he  would  talk  to  the  boy  about  the  mysteries  of  his 
craft.  He  would  draw  diagrams  on  sheets  of  paper, 
showing  the  geography  of  beef,  mutton,  veal,  and 
pork;  and  the  names  of  all  the  parts.  This  science 
had  a  terminology  of  its  own,  and  the  boy  mastered 
the  lexicon — chine,  cutlet,  fillet,  loin,  rack,  round, 
rump,  roast,  rib,  the  first,  second,  and  third  chucks, 
and  the  rest. 

Surveying  the  map  of  a  cow,  he  exclaimed,  once: 

"It's  like  a  Unineted  States,  isn't  it?" 

"That's  right!"  said  Mr.  Mullett.  And,  covering 
it  with  a  hand  like  the  flat  of  a  cleaver,  he  said: 
"See  if  you  can  bound  the  plate." 

267 


"MOMMA" 

• 

Ronald  ran  his  tongue  round  his  cheeks,  turned 
his  eyes  inward,  and  faltered: 

''Lea'  me  see:  The  plate  is  bounded  on  the  north 
by  the — er — um — the  first  chuck,  the  first-cut  stand 
ing  ribs,  the  middle  cut,  and  the  back  ribs;  on  the 
east  by  er — er — the  skirt;  on  the  west  by  the  bolar; 
and  on  the  south  by  the — the — on  the  south  by  the 
— wait  naow! — on  the  south  by  the  brisket." 

"Grand!"  roared  Mr.  Mullett.  "We'll  make  a 
butcher  for  true  out  of  you  one  of  these  fine  days." 

Ronald  never  had  an  accolade  that  thrilled  him 
more.  And  the  pity  of  it  was  that  he  did  not  dare 
take  home  this  head  mark  in  such  contrast  with  his 
school  reports. 

When,  however,  Mr.  Mullett  described  the  ex 
quisite  technic  of  slaughter,  Ronald  found  that  a 
short  lecture  went  a  long  way. 

Josie,  too,  regretted  that  part  of  her  adored  father's 
business  as  something  inexplicable  and  none  of  hers. 
She  regarded  him  with  the  piety  of  an  idolater 
toward  a  god,  crediting  him  with  everything  beauti 
ful  and  bountiful,  but  setting  aside  the  painful,  the 
horrible,  and  the  cruel,  as  things  too  deep  for  her  to 
understand.  He  knew.  That  was  enough  for  her. 

She  was  a  delicate  thing,  and  her  father  made  no 
effort  to  harden  her  heart  to  the  brutal  necessities  of 
the  food  problem.  He  knew  that  the  daintiest  peo 
ple  must  have  their  fish,  flesh,  and  good  herring, 
unless  they  are  vegetarians,  and  he  doubted  that 
vegetarians  were  people,  certainly  not  Christians. 
If  everybody  was  to  eat  meat,  somebody  had  to  kill 
it.  So  there  you  were. 

He  believed  in  the  efficacy  of  blood  to  health.  He 
fed  his  daughter  on  the  sweetest  meats  he  could  dis- 

268 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

cover.  She  needed  building  up.  He  feared  for  her 
life  that  it  was  briefly  meant.  He  knew  too  well 
what  made  good  beef  and  what  not.  He  knew  those 
poor  little  heifers  and  yearlings  and  shoats  that 
would  never  be  worthy  even  of  the  knife  of  the 
butcher.  He  wanted  his  daughter  to  be  strong 
enough  for  any  of  the  bludgeonings  of  chance. 
Meanwhile,  he  wanted  her  to  be  happy  as  long  as 
she  could.  He  hoped  she  would  win  a  better  hus 
band  than  poor  Ronald,  the  scion  of  butter  and  eggs, 
but  so  long  as  she  liked  Ronald  and  Ronald  adored 
her,  he  should  be  made  welcome. 

Otherwise,  he  would  have  thrust  the  lad  out  of 
the  shop  and  sent  the  girl  to  her  room,  for  he  was 
jealous  of  her  love  without  knowing  it. 

He  tolerated  Ronald  and  gave  him  the  freedom  of 
the  shop,  let  him  sell  things  and  make  change.  But 
he  warned  him  away  from  the  sharp  tools  of  his  trade. 
"Knives  are  always  loaded,"  he  said. 

So  Ronald  had  to  watch  from  a  distance  the  adroit 
executions  of  Mr.  Mullett,  the  poise  of  the  cleaver, 
and  its  quick  bite  into  the  crackling  joint,  the  selec 
tion  of  just  the  right  implement  for  just  the  requisite 
operation,  the  strange  slish  of  the  blade  drawn  across 
the  meat  like  a  fiddler's  bow,  the  rapid  falling  apart 
of  the  red  mass,  the  dainty  manipulation  of  a  rasher 
of  bacon  into  ribbons,  the  miniature  Frenching  of  a 
chop,  the  management  of  the  saw  with  a  voice  like 
the  bray  of  a  tiny  donkey — hee-haw,  hee-haw — all 
the  music  and  mystery  of  this  big  surgery. 

It  was  fine  to  see  Mr.  Mullett  pare  a  slab  off  a 
quarter  of  beef  and  toss  it  into  the  pan  of  the  scale. 
A  glance  at  the  excited  arrow  sufficed,  and  then  he 
took  it  out  and  trimmed  it. 

269 


"MOMMA" 

Ronald  thought  it  was  fine  of  him  to  weigh  it 
before  he  worked  on  it.  He  marveled  at  the  nicety 
of  his  skill,  the  fact  that  he  never  cut  himself.  He 
evidently  had  cut  himself  a  few  times,  but  Ronald 
never  saw  him  make  a  miss.  After  every  apparently 
reckless  wielding  of  the  deadly  edges,  his  fingers  ran 
here  and  there,  nibbling  up  the  pieces,  the  gristle 
and  rind  and  fragments  of  bone,  which  he  tossed 
aside.  Then  he  wrapped  the  remnant  neatly  in  a 
paper,  and  said,  "Was  there  anything  else  to-day?" 

Ronald  had  no  more  golden  dream  all  that  sum 
mer  than  that  of  becoming  the  junior  partner  of 
Mr.  Mullett  and  the  senior  partner  of  Miss  Mullett. 

But  time  is  of  the  essence  of  such  a  contract,  and 
there  were  many  weary  years  ahead  of  this  young 
man's  day  for  taking  up  either  shopkeeping  or  house 
keeping. 

September  divorced  the  young  couple,  for  it 
brought  on  school  again.  The  first  separation  was 
tragic,  but  it  grew  customary.  Other  boyhood  busi 
nesses  occupied  his  mind,  and  he  saw  little  of  Josie. 

His  ambitious  mother  forced  him  away  to  a  pre 
paratory  academy,  and  new  sweethearts  from  new 
regions  kindled  new  fires  in  the  little  stove  in  his 
breast.  It  came  to  be  mere  tradition  that  he  had 
ever  loved  a  butcher's  daughter,  and  when  he  re 
membered  he  smiled  with  all  the  grandeur  of  a 
Sophomore. 

"I  was  young  and  foolish  then." 

A  few  evenings  after  he  reached  Carthage  on~a 
college  vacation  the  high-school  commencement 
came  off.  Everybody  in  town  was  going,  so  Ronald 
yawningly  presumed  he  would  drop  over  for  a  while. 

There  was  a  mild  sensation  at  the  dinner  table 

270 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

when  Ronald's  father  read  aloud  from  the  Carthage 
evening  paper  the  announcement  that  the  scholar 
ship  prize  had  been  taken  by  Miss  Josephine  Mullett. 

Ronald's  mother  flinched.  Ronald  blushed,  and 
his  mother  was  proud  of  him  for  it. 

But  his  father  had  to  go  and  say: 

"Seems  to  me  I  remember  the  young  lady's  name. ' 
Wasn't  she  to  be  our  daughter-in-law  or  something?" 

"Aw,  cut  it  out,  dad!"  Ronald  protested,  and  his 
mother  backed  him  up. 

"It  seems  to  me  rather  cruel  to  twit  the  poor  child 
with  such  ancient  history." 

"Oh,  I'm  the  cruel  one  now,"  said  Mr.  Milligrew. 
"As  I  remember  it — " 

"If  you  would  remember  that  your  steak  is  getting 
cold!" 

"Speaking  of  steak,  where'd  you  get  this  piece  of 
sole  leather — at  the  shoe  store  or  the  harness  shop? 
Can't  we  go  back  to  the  Metropolitan?  They  sell 
meat  there." 

"We  might — now,"  Mrs.  Milligrew  murmured. 


IV 

Ronald  dropped  over  to  the  high-school  commence 
ment  and  smiled  to  see  the  girl  graduates,  like  white- 
robed  priestesses,  amble  awkwardly  in  their  home- 
draped  costumes  to  the  platform.  Among  them 
were  several  sheepish  males  in  black.  They  all  sat 
about  like  the  olio  of  a  denatured  minstrel  per 
formance. 

In  the  starchy  flock  Ronald  could  not  spot  Josie. 
But  in  the  course  of  the  exercises  she  was  introduced 
by  State  Senator  Cinnamon  as  the  leading  scholar  of 

271 


"MOMMA" 

the  class  (applause)  who  would  read  an  original 
essay  entitled,  "The  Influence  of  Culture  on 
Character." 

Ronald  smiled  at  the  provincial  majesty  of  the 
title,  and  blushed  to  think  of  his  own  past. 

Then  the  bottom  dropped  out  of  the  world  for 
Ronald;  Josie,  the  awkward  little  goose  he  remem 
bered,  floated  to  the  front  of  the  stage  with  some 
thing  of  the  gliding  snowiness  of  a  swan. 

She  was  tall  and  slender,  but  very  curvy,  and  not 
with  the  curviness  of  a  gawky  little  girl.  Little  Josie 
liad  been  hollow  chested  and  plump  stomached.  But 
this  Josie  was  decidedly  neither.  She  was  very  frail, 
however — as  lithe  as  a  budding  willow,  but  terrify- 
ingly  pallid. 

Her  voice  had  the  Josie  timbre,  but  something  had 
silvered  the  wire.  Her  essay  was  made  up  of  moth- 
eaten  platitudes  in  shelf-worn  phrases,  but  they 
sounded  to  Ronald  like  sibylline  utterances.  He 
had  an  attack  of  what  his  mother  called  "hot 
flashes."  In  fact,  his  soul  and  body  were  like  a  dis 
tant  horizon  quivery  with  heat  lightning. 

He  told  himself  that  he  must  not  die  of  worship 
in  public.  He  used  his  mother's  pet  words,  "You 
must  not.  You  shall  not.  I  simply  will  not  let 
you!"  And  so,  by  sheer  effort  of  will,  he  kept  him 
self  from  swooning.  He  vowed  that  by  the  same 
imperative  power  he  would  save  Josie  from  the  death 
that  seemed  to  wait  for  her  like  an  impatient  beau. 
It  seemed  to  him  an  eternity  until  the  wretched 
speakers  who  followed  her  had  read  their  drool  and 
the  diplomas  had  been  handed  out  like  sticks  of 
Italian  bread. 

He  hurried  to  the  side  door  and  awaited  Josie's 

272 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

exit  as  if  she  were  a  great  actress  and  he  a  rural 
Johnnie.  Her  father  and  mother  were  there  already, 
waiting  for  her.  They  were  worrying  about  night 
air  and  they  carried  wraps.  They  did  not  recognize 
Ronald,  and  he  did  not  introduce  himself. 

The  other  graduates  trooped  out,  tittering  or  glum, 
and  then  the  swan.  Ronald  stepped  forward,  only 
to  be  bunted  aside  by  Mr.  Mullett,  who  flung  a  wrap 
around  his  darling  with  the  fussiness  of  an  old  maid. 

Ronald  sidled  along,  trying  to  break  into  the  paren 
tal  cries  of  "You  were  just  grand!"  and  "Oh,  such 
a  picture  you  made ! "  At  length  he  gained  an  open 
ing,  lifted  his  hat,  and  said: 

"Miss  Mullett,  I  believe." 

"Why,  Ronnie!  Why,  Ronnie!  Poppa!  Momma! 
This  is  Ronnie  Milligrew!  And  hasn't  he  grown?" 

The  father  and  mother  nodded  and  grumbled,  and 
glared  at  him  with  evident  jealousy.  He  was  a 
wooer  now,  a  wolf  sniffing  about  the  fold  where  their 
lamb  was  sheltered. 

The  wolf  gave  up  and  retired.  He  had  a  woeful 
night.  The  next  morning  he  called  Josie  on  the 
telephone — from  the  drug  store.  He  implored  per 
mission  to  call  at  once,  but  Josie  was  busy  till  eve 
ning.  She  said  she  would  just  love  to  see  him  then. 

That  was  the  longest  day  in  several  years,  but 
evening  had  to  come,  and  it  found  Ronald  dressed 
to  the  nines — whatever  they  are.  He  went  along  the 
street  no  longer  afraid  of  open-air  burglars,  but 
more  afraid  than  ever  of  Josie. 

He  was  afraid  that  he  would  be  alone  with  just  her 
and  his  emotions,  and  he  was  equally  afraid  that  her 
parents  would  stick  around. 

Her  parents  were  there  and  they  stuck  around. 

273 


"MOMMA" 

They  greeted  Ronald  with  ill-concealed  hostility. 
Mrs.  Mullett  did  most  of  the  talking.  It  was  all 
about  Josie's  ill  health.  The  way  she  had  studied, 
you  never  could  believe.  A  regular  bookworm,  she 
was.  Her  nose  never  out  of  a  schoolbook !  She  done 
a  three  years'  course  in  two ;  yes,  she  did — and  what 
was  the  use  of  it?  Her  health  no  good — that  was 
what  was  the  use  of  it.  And  now  the  doctors  said  she 
might  have  to  go  away  and  rest  for  a  year,  maybe. 

This  threw  Ronald  into  a  new  panic.  He  was 
fairly  perishing  to  be  alone  with  Josie.  He  tried  to 
signal  to  her  with  his  eyes  and  to  indicate  the  front 
porch  with  the  top  of  his  head.  She  guessed  his 
meaning  and  smiled — such  a  smile!  He  wondered 
what  new  kind  of  electricity  she  used  to  light  up  so. 
She  murmured: 

"It's  too  stuffy  in  here.  I  think  I'll  take  a  breath 
of  air,  if  Ronald  doesn't  mind." 

Ronald  said,  "That's  a  good  idea,"  with  a  violent 
indifference.  Her  father  looked  up  over  his  spec 
tacles  and  the  edge  of  the  Drovers'  Journal,  and  said : 

"You  got  to  have  something  round  you,  honey. 
I'll  get  it." 

He  rose  with  mountainous  effort,  like  a  bull  getting 
up,  and  found  a  shawl,  wrapped  her  in  it,  patted  her 
shoulders,  and  watched  her  out,  as  if  she  were  on  her 
way  to  the  guillotine. 

Outside,  in  the  shimmering  radiance  that  makes 
palaces  out  of  cottages,  Ronald  felt  poetry  fairly 
bleeding  through  his  heart,  but  he  could  find  no  more 
Petrarchan  vocabulary  than: 

"Gee!  Josie,  but  you're  a  sight  for  sore  eyes! 
Swell?  Why,  you've  got  all  these  Carthage  girls,  or 
any  other  girls,  lookin'  like  nothin'  at  tall." 

274 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

"Thanks,  Ronnie!  You're  pretty  handsome  your 
self." 

He  perjured  himself  superbly. 

"You  always  were  the  only  girl  for  me,  Josie.  I 
never  could  seem  to  get  my  mind  off  you.  Remem 
ber  the—" 

Then  ensued  an  exchange  of  reminiscence,  and 
they  laughed  tenderly  over  their  early  amour,  as  if 
they  were  nonagenarians  talking  about  their  great 
grandchildren. 

It  was  heaven  till  old  Mr.  Mullett  had  to  come 
blundering  to  the  door  and  drag  her  in.  Ronald 
bade  her  good-night  formally,  and  she  asked  him  to 
call  again  sometime. 

As  he  went  along  the  walk  he  told  himself  that  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  her  old  man  he'd  have  hugged  her 
to  death  right  there. 

"Sometime"  meant  the  next  evening  to  Ronald. 
Going  her  way,  he  vowed  that  if  he  only  found  her 
alone  he'd  grab  her  like  sixty.  She  was  alone  on 
the  porch.  The  moonlight  was  there  again  and  she 
swimming  in  it  in  her  rocking  chair  like  a  mermaid 
in  a  lagoon.  But  the  thought  of  hugging  her  struck 
Ronald  as  an  act  of  appalling  impossibility.  He 
was  afraid  of  her  again,  with  a  queer  and  reverential 
terror.  His  heart  bucked  and  plunged  at  the  sacri 
lege  of  his  desire. 

He  hated  her  father  because  he  expected  him  to 
appear  at  the  door  every  moment.  He  hated  her 
father's  trade,  and  vowed  that  as  soon  as  he  could 
get  a  job  he  would  marry  Josie  and  rescue  her  from 
the  ignominy  of  being  only  the  daughter  of  what  she 
was.  He  would  make  her  the  wife  of  all  that  he  was 
going  to  be. 

275 


"MOMMA" 

The  partnership  plans  of  Mullett  and  Milligrew 
suffered  a  change  indeed.  The  old  man  hated  the 
boy  as  much  as  the  boy  him.  They  were  rivals  now 
for  the  heart  of  this  spiritual  creature,  already  so 
poised  between  sky  and  ground  that  one  could  hardly 
say  whether  she  were  an  angel  hovering  about  the 
earth  and  tempted  to  alight,  or  a  young  saint  trying 
her  wings  for  the  long,  long  journey. 

One  evening  Ronald  was  met  at  the  door  by  Josie's 
mother,  who  told  him  that  Doctor  Chadlow  had  sent 
Josie  to  bed  because  she  was  awful  poorly — chills 
like  she'd  be  shook  apart;  then  a  blazing  fever,  and 
sweats  that  drenched  her  like  she'd  got  caught  out 
in  the  rain,  and  altogether  so  perf 'ly  mis'ble  she  could 
hardly  lift  her  pore  head. 

Ronald  huskily  stated  that  that  was  too  bad,  and 
he  hoped  she'd  be  better  soon,  and  if  he  could  do 
anything,  why,  just  let  him  know. 

If  he  could  do  anything!  But  what  could  a  cub 
at  his  age  do  for  an  ailing  young  woman,  frozen  and 
blistered  and  shattered?  He  stole  down  the  street, 
and  the  trees  once  more  hid  fiends  of  terror.  If  he 
could  only  do  something ! 

He  believed  that  he  had  found  his  career  at  last. 
He  would  be  a  physician  so  that  he  could  help  his 
sweetheart  in  her  future  perils.  After  all,  of  what 
value  was  a  man  to  a  woman  if  he  could  not  fend  off 
the  enemies  of  ill  health,  fight  microbes  and  all  the 
pestilences  that  replace  the  harmless  ogres  of  earlier 
days.  Your  doctor  is  your  only  real  knight  errant. 

But  by  the  time  Ronald  could  graduate  from  a 
medical  school,  where  would  Josie  be  ?  She  had  Doc 
tor  Chadlow.  The  old  fluff!  To  think  that  her 
safety  should  depend  on  such  a  dub  as  that ! 

276 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

Ronald  wanted  to  telegraph  for  the  greatest  spe 
cialists  in  the  world,  bring  them  on  private  trains  or 
by  airships,  ignoring  the  expense.  But  he  realized 
that  while  he  might  be  willing  to  ignore  the  expense, 
the  doctors  and  the  railroad  companies  might  not. 
Ronald's  pocket  wealth  totaled  a  dollar  and  a  quar 
ter.  He  cried  curses  on  poverty  and  youth  and 
helplessness. 

Josie's  father  was  in  much  the  same  case.  He  was 
as  frightened  as  the  boy  was.  He  was  not  used  to 
being  afraid  of  anything.  He  had  always  boasted 
that  he  had  no  nerves.  And  now  he  seemed  to  have 
nothing  else.  He  would  stand  outside  Josie's  door 
like  an  old,  wounded  bull,  stuck  full  of  banderillas, 
blind,  and  wavering  with  rage  and  fear,  not  knowing 
which  way  to  charge  against  the  taunting,  intangible 
matadors  and  picadors. 

For  all  his  stolidity  of  manner,  he  was  in  an  abso 
lute  panic.  He  could  not  sleep  of  nights.  He  made 
blunders  at  the  shop,  gave  the  wrong  cuts  to  the 
wrong  people,  slashed  his  own  fingers,  started  to 
saw  his  own  thumb  off,  and  did  not  know  it  till  a 
customer  gasped. 

The  customer  was  Mrs.  Milligrew.  She  had  come 
back  to  his  market,  not  knowing  where  Ronald  had 
been  spending  his  evenings.  Ronald  had  grown  up 
enough  to  resent  being  asked,  and  to  evade  replies. 

Mrs.  Milligrew  had  heard  that  Josie  was  very  ill. 
She  asked  about  her.  Mr.  Mullett  talked  to  her 
with  a  freedom  that  shocked  her. 

"It's  a  lump  on  her  chest  right  here  between  the 
fourth  and  fifth  ribs.  It  keeps  on  growin' ;  it  hurts 
her  awful.  Doctor  don't  seem  to  know  what's 
wrong." 

277 


"MOMMA" 

"You  don't  suppose  it's — "  Mrs.  Milligrew  dared 
not  breathe  the  frightful  word  "cancer."  She  did 
not  need  to.  Mullett  waved  his  taurine  head. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  what  it  is.  It's  right  over 
her  heart,  whatever  it  is,  and  that's  bad.  She's 
awful  sick.  Was  there  anything  else  to-day?" 

Mrs.  Milligrew  took  some  unnecessary  Hamburger 
steak,  just  to  cheer  him  up  a  little. 

At  dinner  that  evening  Mr.  Milligrew  praised  the 
meat.  He  knew  it  was  Metropolitan.  His  wife 
sighed. 

"Poor  Mr.  Mullett  is  so  worried.  His  poor  daugh 
ter  is  very  ill.  Her  heart — it  seems  to  be  her  heart." 

Tears  gushed  to  Ronald's  eyes  because  he  heard 
his  mother  express  sympathy  for  his  disprized  love. 
But  he  did  not  let  her  know. 

It  made  Josie's  illness  a  little  more  beautiful,  a 
little  nicer,  to  connect  it  with  the  heart.  That  lump 
of  muscle,  that  mere  suction  pump,  has  gained  a 
vast  prestige  on  account  of  the  influence  of  poets 
and  others  who  have  credited  it  with  being  the  seat 
of  the  passion  of  love.  The  Greeks  preferred  the 
liver;  other  nations  other  organs;  but  it  pays  to 
advertise,  and  the  heart  is  spoken  of  with  respect 
gained  under  false  pretenses. 

Mr.  Mullett  had  no  illusions  about  the  heart.  He 
knew  its  importance,  but  it  was  a  mechanical,  not 
emotional  importance.  He  was  relieved,  and  not 
shocked,  when  the  trouble  developed  sufficiently  for 
diagnosis  as  an  abscess. 

Ronald  would  have  been  shocked  if  he  had  known. 
Abscesses  are  not  romantic ;  they  are  rough  prose  in 
the  pages  of  agony.  They  are  gathering  places  of  that 
offensive  battle  debris  politely  known  as  suppuration. 

278 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

Nice  people  do  not  suppurate.  Not  if  they  can 
help  it.  Josie  could  not  help  it.  Her  father  had  no 
poetic  daintiness,  no  squeamishness.  He  wanted  to 
know  what  was  the  matter  of  his  girl.  Pus  was  the 
matter,  and  pus  is  no  longer  considered  "laudable" 
under  any  circumstances. 

He  breathed  easier  when  Doctor  Chadlow  told 
him  the  exact  situation. 

"Is  that  all?  Well,  go  in  after  it  and  get  it  out," 
he  thundered. 

"Ah  yes,"  Doctor  Chadlow  laughed  sardonically; 
"'go  in  after  it.'  But  the  heart  is  right  there  and 
I  dare  not.  The  abscess  will  point  of  itself,  I 
hope." 

But  it  would  not  point.  It  would  only  ache  and 
grow,  seething  like  a  little  volcano  that  will  not 
erupt.  Josie  could  not  afford  a  volcano.  She  had 
studied  away  all  her  reserve  strength.  Her  father 
watched  night  after  night.  He  ran  over  to  the  house 
in  daytime  alarms,  his  apron  still  on.  He  besought 
the  doctor  to  probe,  but  the  doctor  was  afraid. 

"It  will  point  before  long." 

"But  my  Josie  won't  be  here." 

The  two  men  quarreled  in  their  different  ways — 
Mullett  burly,  snorting,  lurching;  Doctor  Chadlow 
spindly,  whiny,  deprecatory. 

Mullett  said,  "You're  afraid." 

"Yes,  I  am  afraid,"  Chadlow  confessed.  "I  am 
not  in  the  habit  of  killing  my  patients." 

"No;  but  you've  let  a  lot  of  'em  die.  I  tell  you 
you've  got  to  take  a  chance." 

"I  will  not.  If  you  distrust  my  skill,  call  in 
another  doctor." 

"I'm  goin'  to." 

279 


"MOMMA" 

"I  should  welcome  a  consultation." 

They  called  in  Doctor  Tailey.  Whether  from  pro 
fessional  discretion,  small-town  agreement,  or  from 
unwillingness  to  take  a  risk  that  the  older  practitioner 
refused,  Doctor  Tailey  came  to  the  house  with  his 
mind  already  made  up  to  confirm  Doctor  Chadlow's 
decision. 

Mullett  went  into  the  room  with  them,  but  he 
turned  away  while  they  made  the  examination.  He 
had  never  seen  the  little  mound  that  had  grown  over 
Josie's  heart.  She  was  no  longer  a  child,  but  a  young 
woman,  and  holy  from  his  eyes. 

After  the  doctors  had  finished,  they  patted  Josie's 
shoulder  and  told  her  that  she  was  doing  fine;  then 
they  went  out  on  the  porch  with  Mullett  to  hold  the 
— "autopsy"  was  the  word  that  Doctor  Tailey  nearly 
used. 

They  did  not  see  the  young  man  who  had  been 
pacing  up  and  down  like  a  sentinel,  watching  for 
the  doctors  to  come  out  that  he  might  ask  them 
what  he  dared  not  ask  the  parents. 

He  hurried  away  at  the  sight  of  Josie's  father, 
seeing  that  he  was  bareheaded  and  shirt-sleeved, 
and  in  his  very  attitude  almost  borne  to  the  earth 
under  a  yoke  too  heavy  for  his  broad  shoulders. 

When  Doctor  Tailey  said  he  agreed  with  Doctor 
Chadlow  that  any  effort  to  lance  the  abscess  would 
probably  cause  a  rupture  into  the  heart,  with  fatal 
results,  the  maddened  father  snorted : 

"'Probably!'  But  if  you  don't,  she  dies  cer 
tainly!" 

"One  never  knows,"  Doctor  Tailey  dodged. 

"While  there's  life  there's  hope,"  was  Doctor 
Chadlow's  contribution. 

280 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

Mullett  did  not  want  excuses  for  inaction;  he 
wanted  a  fight. 

"So  you  both  refuse  to  operate — both  of  you?" 

"Absolutely." 

"Absolutely." 

"Then  I  will!" 

The  two  doctors  gasped,  put  up  their  hands,  looked 
at  each  other,  at  the  butcher,  this  blockhead  of 
cleavers  and  saws  who  would  thrust  his  loutish  fists 
into  the  delicate  machinery  that  watchmakers  feared 
to  touch.  Doctor  Chadlow  was  patient. 

"You  don't  mean  that,  Mr.  Mullett.  You  are 
excited." 

"You  bet  I  am!  That  girl  upstairs  is  my  baby, 
and  if  you  two  cowards  are  afraid  to  do  your  duty, 
I'm  not." 

"But,  really,  you  have  no  right  to,  you  know." 

4 '  Who  has  a  better  right  ?     I'm  her  father,  ain ' 1 1  ? " 

"But  you  have  no  diploma.  The  law  of  the  state 
forbids  an  unlicensed  physician  to  practice." 

"There's  a  law  that's  older  than  the  state,  and 
that's  the  law  I'm  goin'  to  obey." 

Doctor  Chadlow  was  genuinely  sorry  for  the  dis 
tracted  father.  He  tried  to  coerce  him. 

"I  beg  you,  Mr.  Mullett;  I  must  protest.  If  you 
force  me  to  it,  I  shall  have  to  notify  the  police." 

"If  you  do,  I'll  knock  your  head  and  the  police 
man's  together." 

"Well,"  sighed  Chadlow,  "I  wash  my  hands  of 
responsibility.  I  quit  the  case  now." 

"It  has  never  been  my  case,"  said  Talley. 

"Oh  no,  you  don't!"  Mullett  roared,  and  seized 
each  of  them  by  a  wrist  in  a  grip  there  was  no  gain 
saying.  "You  two  are  going  to  stand  by  and  tell  me 

19  281 


"MOMMA" 

what  to  do  and  how  to  do  it;   and  you're  going  to 
take  care  of  her  when  she  comes  out  of  the  ether." 

"But  you  can't  anaesthetize  her  in  her  present  con 
dition.     She'd  never  survive  that." 
"Then,  by  God!  I'll  do  it  without!" 
Doctor  Chadlow  was  horrified. 
"And  what  if  we  refuse  to  be  parties  to  this?" 
Mullett  answered  very  quietly: 
"Then  I'll  kill  you  both  for  killing  her." 
There  was  no  need  to  shout  a  thing  so  earnestly 
intended  as  this,  and  Doctor  Chadlow  felt  that  the 
whole  police  force  of  Carthage  would  be  of  no  avail 
against  the  vision  he  had  of  that  mighty  butcher 
running  amuck  with  a  swinging  cleaver.     He  yielded 
with  a  last  flare  of  protest. 

"Very  well.     Her  blood  be  on  your  own  hands." 
"My  hands  are  used  to  blood,"   said  Mullett. 
'"Go  get  your  tools  and  let's  not  waste  any  more 
time." 


When  Doctors  Chadlow  and  Talley  came  back  to 
the  house  with  a  case  of  instruments  and  bundles  of 
necessary  equipment,  they  found  Mrs.  Mullett  wait 
ing  for  them  in  a  flutter. 

"Poppa  says  you're  goin'  to  operate."  Evidently 
he  had  not  told  her  the  exact  situation.  Doctor 
Chadlow  tempered  the  truth. 

"An  operation  seems  to  be  indicated." 

"  Is  it  very  dangerous  ? ' ' 

Doctor  Chadlow  was  too  good  to  be  afraid  of  an 
altruistic  lie. 

"We  hope  for  the  best,"  he  smiled. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  help?" 
282 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

"The  nurse  will  manage  nicely,  thank  you." 

"You'd  best  send  poppa  out  of  the  room." 

"I  think  we'll  let  him  stay.  You  wait  here.  It 
won't  be  long." 

They  went  upstairs  and  found  the  nurse  in  a  state 
of  bewilderment.  At  the  bedside  sat  big  Mullett  in 
his  shirt  sleeves.  He  held  in  his  two  huge  palms  the 
little  trusting  hand  of  Josie. 

"I've  told  her,"  said  Mullett,  "and  it's  all  right— 
ain't  it,  baby?" 

Josie  answered  in  a  tiny  voice : 

"I'm  not  afraid  so  long  as  poppa  tells  me  not  to 
be." 

The  old  man  watched  while  they  brought  up  a 
kitchen  table  and  covered  it  and  made  all  things 
ready. 

Mullett  shifted  his  frame  to  hide  them  from  the 
girl's  eyes  when  they  set  the  little  side  table  with  the 
ghastly  cutlery,  but  she  heard  it  clink. 

Then  he  went  into  another  room  with  them — the 
spare  room — while  they  told  him  just  what  to  do. 

Doctor  Talley  started  to  draw  a  diagram  and  give 
a  primer  lesson  in  anatomy,  but  Mullett  waved  his 
hand  impatiently. 

"I  know  all  about  that.  It's  between  the  fourth 
and  fifth  ribs,  you  say.  I  'ain't  seen  it,  but  I  know 
where  that  is — right  here."  He  opened  his  shirt  and 
set  the  point  of  a  bistoury  against  the  spot,  as  he 
recited  his  lesson.  "And  I  make  a  crosscut — this-a- 
way  and  that-a-way,  and  it's  got  to  go  three-quarters 
of  an  inch  deep."  He  breathed  a  bit  heavily  at  that. 

He  had  laid  out  a  clean  apron,  one  of  his  own.  He 
put  it  on  now  and  tied  it,  rolled  his  sleeves  a  trifle 
higher,  washed  his  hands,  and  let  the  doctors  sterilize 

283 


"MOMMA" 

them  as  best  they  could.    Then  he  led  the  way  back 
to  Josie's  room. 

He  went  like  an  ancient  Roman  in  the  full  authority 
of  the  patria  potestas.  He  went  like  another  Virginius 
to  plunge  the  knife  into  the  bosom  of  his  daughter — 
not  to  save  her  from  a  vile,  insistent  lover,  not  even  to 
save  her  for  some  unknown  husband — just  to  save 
her  for  herself,  that  she  might  grow  to  her  destiny. 

He  hid  the  knife  from  Josie's  eyes.  Then  he  went 
to  her  and  kissed  her  and  said : 

"Are  you  ready,  honey?" 

She  nodded,  and  reached  up  to  pat  his  cheek,  as 
if  to  tell  him  not  to  be  afraid.  It  was  as  if  she  had 
flicked  him  with  a  white  rosebud.  This  was  very 
hard  for  him  to  bear. 

He  let  the  nurse  and  the  doctors  lift  her  and  place 
her  on  the  table.  He  bent  his  shaggy  brows  together 
as  he  thought  of  the  grisly  pain  he  must  inflict — he 
that  had  always  striven  to  save  her  from  so  much  as 
a  bruise. 

"It's  goin'  to  hurt,  honey,"  he  said. 

"That's  all  right,  poppa." 

"It's  goin'  to  hurt  a  lot.     Can  you  stand  it?" 

"I'm  your  daughter,  don't  you  think?" 

He  smiled,  and  spread  his  hand  across  her  brow, 
wishing  he  might  shield  her  devout  gaze  from  the 
sight  of  him  in  such  an  office. 

Then  the  nurse  threw  back  her  gown  and  he  stag 
gered  away,  clenching  his  eyes  against  her  white 
beauty. 

All  that  saved  him  from  refusing  the  sacrilege  was 
rage  at  the  sacrilege  of  the  misshapen  lump  that 
marred  the  perfect  sculpture  of  her  bosom.  It  was 
coiled  there  like  a  little  mottled  viper. 

284 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

He  put  out  his  great  left  hand.  It  shuddered  as 
it  touched  her.  He  forced  himself  to  look  while  he 
drew  an  imaginary  cross  above  the  spot,  and  asked: 

"Like  this?" 

The  peering  doctors  nodded. 

He  glanced  to  his  daughter  again,  tried  to  smile 
back  to  her  trustful  smile — the  last,  perhaps,  that 
would  ever  wreathe  her  lips. 

Then  he  bowed  to  his  task,  set  his  thumb  three- 
quarters  of  an  inch  from  the  point  of  the  instrument 
to  make  sure  of  his  depth,  drew  a  great  breath,  put 
the  needle- tip  of  the  blade  against  the  quaking  skin, 
drove  the  steel  deep,  and  made  the  long  slash. 

A  throe  of  anguish  lifted  her  whole  body,  and  a 
wild  cry  cut  the  air  like  another  knife.  It  reached 
the  mother's  ears  in  the  room  below,  and  she  echoed 
it  and  dropped  to  the  floor  in  a  huddle  of  terror. 
Faintly  it  reached  the  boy  on  the  steps  outside,  and 
he  caught  at  his  own  heart.  He  would  have  run  if 
his  knees  had  not  refused. 

But  the  father  could  not  run.  He  set  his  teeth; 
his  frown  deepened  till  he  had  but  one  great  eyebrow 
across  his  corrugated  forehead. 

A  faint  voice  came  to  him  from  the  child. 

"I'm  sorry  I  made  a  noise,  poppa;  I  wasn't  quite 
ready.  Is  there  another?" 

He  tried  to  say,  "One  more,  honey,"  but  he  feared 
to  open  his  teeth  lest  blasphemy  issue  from  his  black 
heart.  His  head  went  up  and  down  to  say  "Yes." 

He  put  the  knife  to  its  task  again  and  signaled  his 
daughter  with  a  little  tap.  She  whispered : 

"All  right,  poppa." 

She  clenched  her  teeth.  The  body  rose  again  as 
the  knife  went  in.  There  was  no  sound  now,  but  a 

285 


"MOMMA" 

most  awful  silence,  a  sudden  vanishing  of  every  sign 
of  life,  as  if  a  candle  had  been  blown  out. 

The  doctors  pushed  Mullett  aside  and  stared  at 
the   motionless   figure.      Doctor   Chadlow   gasped, 
almost  with  a  triumphant  horror: 
-  "You've  killed  her!" 

Mullett  crashed  backward  into  a  chair  and  let  the 
weapon  drop.  He  had  done  his  best,  and  a  cowardly 
fate  had  played  him  false.  He  had  put  his  one  gift 
at  the  service  of  his  child,  and  he  had  no  other.  He 
sat  inert,  unresisting,  exhausted,  while  the  doctors 
and  the  nurse  wrought  over  the  girl.  At  length  the 
nurse  gave  a  little  gasp. 

' '  She's  coming  round !     See ! ' ' 

Mullett  did  not  hear  this,  or  heed  the  subsequent 
scurry. 

Doctor  Chadlow  was  a  good  man,  and  there  was 
not  exactly  disappointment  in  his  announcement; 
yet  there  was  something  lacking  in  his  enthusiasm 
when  he  laid  his  hand  on  Mullett's  shoulder  and 
said: 

"She's  whispering  for  you." 

He  had  to  say  it  more  than  once  before  the  stupid 
monster  understood.  When  he  did  he  leaped  up, 
knocking  the  chair  backward.  He  ran  to  the  child, 
bent,  and  almost  smothered  her  with  a  kiss.  Then 
he  lifted  his  head  and  bellowed  for  all  the  world  to 
hear: 

"Momma!  Josie's  all  right!  Momma,  come 
quick!" 

VI 

It  was  agreed  that,  in  view  of  all  the  possibilities 
of  gossip  and  legal  complications,  it  should  not  be 

286 


THE  BUTCHER'S  DAUGHTER 

mentioned  that  the  operation  had  been  performed 
by  a  layman. 

Young  Mr.  Milligrew  only  knew  that  Josie  was 
getting  better  and  would  be  able  to  see  him  before 
long. 

He  was  walking  with  his  mother  one  day.  Mrs. 
Milligrew  was  very  proud  of  her  handsome  son,  and 
she  had  such  a  glowing  future  imagined  for  him  that 
when  they  passed  the  Metropolitan  Market  it  never 
occurred  to  her  that  this  meant  anything  more  in  his 
history. 

"We  must  stop  in  and  ask  poor  Mr.  Mullett  how 
his  daughter  is." 

Ronald  entered  the  old  paradise  with  remem 
brances  fluttering  like  the  tinted  papers  that  still 
festooned  the  ceiling.  The  same  exhibits  were  there 
— the  plates  of  sausage  meat,  the  long  coils  of  ox 
tongue,  the  gleaming  heap  of  fish,  the  dressed  and 
the  undressed  fowl,  the  pigs'  feet,  calves'  brains, 
the  sprawl  of  liver,  and  the  bowlders  of  beef. 

Ronald  forgot  all  the  past,  for  Josie  herself  was 
there.  She  greeted  him  and  his  mother  in  much  the 
same  tone,  and  thanked  them  both  for  their  felicita 
tions  on  her  recovery.  Mrs.  Milligrew  felt  that  she 
was  no  longer  a  menace  to  Ronald,  and  was  so  well 
assured  that  she  remembered  that  she'd  better  have 
a  few  extra  chops  for  supper. 

Mr.  Mullett  wielded  the  cleaver  and  the  carver 
with  his  old-time  nicety. 

And  he  smiled  at  Ronald  with  his  old-time  toler 
ance,  for  Ronald  was  to  him  no  longer  a  rival  for  his 
daughter's  love. 

Ronald  felt  very  young  himself  all  of  a  sudden. 
Josie  smiled  at  him,  indeed,  but  from  an  infinite 

287 


"MOMMA" 

distance.  She  seemed  to  have  gone  back  again  to 
little  girlhood,  to  have  become  once  more  her  father's 
child  alone. 

Mr.  Mullett  tossed  the  chops  on  the  scale,  glanced 
at  the  dancing  arrow,  and  proceeded  to  French  away 
the  surplus  with  delicacy.  His  fingers  went  nibbling 
among  the  remnants  and  tossed  them  aside.  Then 
he  delivered  the  parcel — to  Ronald! 

And  Ronald  could  not  quite  resent  the  humilia 
tion,  for  there  was  an  extraordinary  dignity  about 
this  butcher,  where  he  stood  with  one  brawny  arm 
akimbo  and  the  other  hand  poising  a  great  knife  on 
the  chopping  block,  as  he  said  to  Mrs.  Milligrew: 

"Was  there  anything  else  to-day?" 


XI 

THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 


O  TARING  into  a  mirror  has  always  been  among 
<-}  the  most  awful  delights  of  the  human  soul. 
Apart  from  any  grace  of  modesty  or  flaw  of  vanity, 
one's  features  are  a  fascination,  a  mystery.  To  gaze 
into  a  looking-glass  is  to  study  a  hopeless  stranger. 
For  what  soul  ever  recognized  itself  in  the  alien  being 
on  the  other  side  of  that  casement  ?  What  soul  ever 
found  itself  truly  expressed  by  its  own  image?  or 
felt  itself  anything  but  belied  and  mistranslated 
by  the  eyes,  the  nose,  the  mouth,  the  brow,  across 
that  barrier  between  the  inner  self  and  the  outer 
self? 

It  was  now  an  actress  who  sat  before  her  glittering 
reflection,  peering  through  a  border  of  well-wishing 
telegrams  as  she  built  upon  her  own  face  a  new  face, 
underlaying  and  overlaying,  calcimining  and  paint 
ing,  lining  and  dotting  with  black  and  white  and  blue 
and  red.  She  worked  it  up  with  expert  knowledge 
of  values,  finishing  a  cheap  chromo  that  should  look 
divinely  beautiful  through  the  veil  of  the  footlights. 
Her  own  skin  was  like  a  canvas  set  upon  an  easel, 
and  she  toiled  over  it  as  over  a  stranger's  portrait, 
fashioning  a  grotesque  and  living  mask  for  herself 
to  wear.  She  was  privileged  to  explore  all  the  mys- 

289 


"MOMMA" 

tery  of  her  own  personality  and  the  endless  mysteries 
of  the  personalities  she  assumed. 

But  while  she  plied  the  rabbit's  foot  and  the  pen 
cil,  mascaro  and  rouge-stick,  a  frowzy-headed  mes 
senger  boy,  whose  tilted  cap  bore  the  number  88, 
was  drawling  along  his  way  to  the  theater  with  a 
telegram  of  such  dire  import  that  it  were  almost 
better  for  her  had  he  carried  dynamite. 

The  wisdom  of  experience  fathered  the  rule  that 
telegrams  arriving  at  theaters  are  not  given  to  the 
actors  just  before  or  during  a  performance;  but, 
being  a  rule,  it  is  set  aside  at  the  times  of  most  im 
portance.  That  is  why,  on  the  first  night  of  the  new 
piece  at  this  theater,  when  the  people  were  as  flighty 
as  a  pack  of  running  horses  at  the  starting  post  and 
as  ready  to  be  stampeded  by  a  flutter  of  paper,  tele 
grams  were  handed  to  them  in  bundles,  uncensored. 

Of  course,  these  messages  were  pretty  sure  to  be 
the  preliminary*  ovation  of  an  invisible  audience  of 
remote  well  wishers;  but  among  these  greetings 
what  baleful  news  might  come,  to  throw  a  leading 
woman  into  hysterics  or  plunge  a  low  comedian  into 
helpless  grief! 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  unsuspected  by  anybody  in 
all  that  anxious  playhouse,  a  telegram  was  bound 
their  way  which  boded  ill  to  the  peace  of  mind  of 
Sally  Sloane,  and,  therefore,  to  the  whole  gleaming 
band  wagon  hitched  to  the  ruddy  little  star  she  was. 

Without  knowing  it,  Sally  Sloane  was  running  a 
desperate  race  with  a  tortoise.  She  thought  it  only 
a  first-night  fever  that  goaded  her  to  finish  making 
up  for  her  entrance,  but  she  would  have  said  later 
that  it  was  Providence  trying  with  whip  and  spur  to 
carry  her  under  the  wire  before  the  arrival  of  No.  88. 

290 


THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 

Blessed,  then,  was  procrastination  for  once  at 
least,  for  Sally  was  rather  a  little  sun  than  a  large 
star,  since,  if  she  lapsed  in  her  orbit,  her  fall  would 
disintegrate  a  whole  system.  If  Sally  Sloane  failed 
to  captivate  the  public  this  night  it  was  all  up  with 
the  manager's  money,  the  repute  and  royalties  of  the 
authors,  and  the  company's  bread-and-cheese  and 
press  notices.  None  realized  this  more  keenly  than 
Sally,  and  the  burden  frightened  her  to  the  point 
where  fear  was  a  disease,  a  seizure,  a  dread  as  of  death. 
And  yet,  suffering  a  panic  that  would  have  driven 
a  woman  of  private  life  to  bed  and  a  professional 
soldier  to  flight,  Sally  must  prepare  herself  and  go 
forth  to  the  guillotines  of  public  censorship,  and  she 
must  go  beautiful.  She  must  sparkle  and  she  must 
be  very,  very  beautiful. 

As  she  hid  her  features  under  an  impasto  of  artifice 
she  paused  now  and  then  to  let  tremors  of  alarm 
ripple  icily  along  her,  like  a  cold  breeze  shivering  the 
surface  of  a  lake.  When  at  length  she  had  finished 
her  guise  her  pallors  were  concealed  under  a  sta 
tionary  blush.  But  she  felt  them  none  the  less. 

Seeing  the  pretty  thing  patter  from  her  dressing 
room  in  the  tinsel  radiance  of  elfin  beauty,  one  could 
never  believe  how  grave  and  potent  an  executive 
of  how  large  a  corporation  she  was.  It  was  like 
electing  a  fairy  to  be  president  of  a  railroad,  or  com 
missioning  a  butterfly  to  command  an  army. 

She  left  her  dressing  room  in  time  to  escape  the 
crucial  telegram,  but  a  new  danger  threatened  her 
all-important  poise  of  soul.  The  manager  of  the 
attraction  (if  that  should  prove  to  be  the  right  term) 
was  plunging  hotfoot  her  way. 

Hermann  Blaumann  had  small  right  to  cross  the 

291 


"MOMMA" 

dead  line  of  the  footlights,  for  he  was  merely  the 
owner  of  the  show.  But  the  front  of  the  house  had 
proved  too  doleful  to  him  during  the  first  part  of  the 
first  act. 

As  he  stumbled  down  the  side  aisle  people  turned 
listlessly  to  watch  him.  He  paused  in  the  dark  cave 
behind  the  boxes,  and,  through  an  opening  in  the 
hangings,  perused  the  audience. 

It  was  simply  an  enormous  field  of  heads ;  bushels 
on  bushels  of  cabbages  spilled  along  a  market  stand. 
The  aggregation  was  a  mere  congeries;  it  had  no 
unity,  no  focus;  it  was  not  held  together  by  the 
action  on  the  stage.  Those  who  were  laughing  were 
laughing  against  the  play,  not  with  it.  The  air  was 
full  of  the  fidget  and  cough  that  betray  a  fatal 
indifference. 

Blaumann  turned  from  the  spectacle  in  dismay, 
groped  for  the  fire  door,  and  sprawled  through  to 
the  stage.  He  was  pale,  sweaty,  trembling  as  a  huge 
clam,  and  about  as  resourceful.  The  chorus  had 
just  danced  off  the  scene  with  violent  artificial  glee, 
in  which  the  audience  had  not  disturbed  them. 

To  Blaumann  they  looked  like  a  clutter  of  Noah's 
Ark  manikins,  painted,  wooden,  and  stupid.  He 
pushed  roughly  through  and  hurried  to  the  star's 
dressing  room.  There  the  maid,  ashen  with  subor 
dinate  terror,  opened  the  door,  and  whispered  that 
Miss  Sloane  was  in  the  right  second  entrance,  wait 
ing  her  cue. 

Blaumann  started  to  cross  the  stage  and  was  nar 
rowly  rescued  from  walking  plump  into  the  scene. 
That  would  have  been  one  way  of  getting  the  first 
laugh  of  the  evening,  but  he  denied  himself  the 
luxury  and  bulged  along  a  narrow  alley  at  the  back, 

292 


THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 

his  figure  creating  a  brief  eclipse  of  the  moon,  and 
an  earthquake  in  the  pillared  castle  painted  on  the 
back  drop. 

He  found  his  star  waiting  at  her  post,  dying  the 
death,  agued  with  chills,  hot  flashes,  and  nausea,  as 
she  watched  the  acting  actors  slaving  like  joke  stok 
ers  and  madly  shoveling  wit  through  the  furnace- 
door  glare  of  the  footlights  at  the  banked  audience. 
As  they  felt,  only  too  well  and  all  too  hopelessly, 
they  were  rather  smothering  what  fire  the  assembly 
had  brought  than  setting  up  any  new  combustion. 

Sally  Sloane  had  watched  the  leading  comedian, 
Harry  Elwell,  make  his  elaborate  entrance  after  a 
big  fanfare  of  preparation.  He  dashed  into  the  lime 
light  in  his  excessively  humorous  make-up  and 
hurled  at  the  audience  his  first  magnificent  hand 
grenade  of  humor.  The  powder  must  have  been 
wet.  There  was  no  explosion.  But  there  was  a 
thud. 

Sally  Sloane  saw  her  leading  comedian  go  green 
under  his  grease  paint.  Behind  the  hilarious  smile 
on  his  painted  lips  she  saw  the  rigor  of  tragedy,  the 
awful  tragedy  of  comedy  that  does  not  go.  Sally 
Sloane  hated  the  leading  comedian  professionally 
and  personally,  but  she  felt  sorry  for  him  profes 
sionally  and  personally.  Besides,  his  failure  could 
not  help  her. 

In  the  shadow  of  an  upper  box  she  could  see  the 
librettist  hiding,  yet  feeling  publicly  exposed  in  the 
pillory  of  chagrin.  He  was  watching  his  best  lines 
die  miserable  deaths,  his  epigrams  read  like  epitaphs. 
He  wanted  to  lean  over  the  rail  and  apologize  to 
the  audience,  saying: 

"I  meant  well,  and  it  went  well  at  rehearsal." 
293 


"MOMMA" 

The  star  did  not  like  the  author  personally  or 
professionally,  but  she  was  sorry  for  him — and  for 
herself. 

The  composer  was  conducting.  His  face  was  as 
white  as  his  gloves,  and  he  beat  time  jerkily  like  a 
toy  wound  up,  snapping  at  encores  rehearsed  by  the 
troupe  but  not  requested  by  the  audience. 

When,  next,  Miss  Devereaux,  the  handsome  con 
tralto,  whom  Sally  loathed,  swept  into  the  fierce 
white  light  that  beats  upon  an  actress,  she  stumbled 
on  her  skirt  and  lost  her  lines  utterly — "faded"  is 
the  vivid  technical  term.  Sally  prompted  her  from 
the  wings,  and  all  the  people  on  the  stage  threw  her 
the  line  sorreptitiously.  But  she  was  too  panic- 
paralyzed  to  take  it.  Her  plight  was  so  dismal  that 
the  audience  was  not  moved  to  its  usual  guffaw  at 
a  mishap  on  the  boards. 

Sally  caught  the  ominous  import  of  this  and 
groaned  inwardly: 

"If  they  won't  laugh  at  that  they  won't  laugh  at 
anything." 

The  Prime  Minister,  seeing  that  the  contralto 
was  stuck  in  the  mire  of  stage  fright,  spoke  her 
speech,  asked  himself  a  question,  and  answered  it. 
The  dialogue  limped  along,  and  Sally  quailed  as  she 
realized  that  the  moment  was  near  when  she, 'too, 
must  romp  into  this  morgue  and  try  to  turn  it  into 
a  bower  of  mirth.  She  must  dance  around  this 
corpse  and  scatter  confetti  on  the  mourners. 

In  such  a  mood  Blaumann  found  her.  But  he 
squandered  no  pity  on  her  terror.  He  saw  twenty 
thousand  dollars  of  spent  money  going  up  in  smoke. 
There  was  one  hope — a  miracle.  If  Sally  Sloane 
could  somehow — he  couldn't  imagine  how — but 

294 


THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 

somehow — hypnotize  the  audience  into  thinking 
that  they  were  being  entertained  the  night  might 
be  saved. 

He  tiptoed  close,  and  whispered  in  her  ear:  "When 
you  go  on,  Miss  Sloane,  lift  it.  The  show's  gone  to 
ballyhack  so  far.  It's  up  to  you  to  lift  it.  You've 
just  gotta." 

"Go  away!'*  she  whispered.  But  he  persisted  in 
a  fiercely  shrill  tone:  "Give  'em  ginger,  Miss  Sloane. 
Whatever  you  do,  give  'em  ginger.  You  gotta  get 
some  ginger  in  this  show  or  you  might  as  well  ring 
down." 

"If  you  don't  go  back  in  front  and  stay  there  I'll 
walk  out  of  the  theater  now — this  minute." 

Blaumann  stood  glaring  at  this  little  painted, 
powdered  doll  that  dared  to  boss  her  boss  about. 
Even  as  he  bristled  he  heard  the  orchestra  strike  up 
her  entrance  music.  All  his  fat  melted  with  terror. 
His  emotion  was  one  of  hatred  and  fear,  of  mixed 
desire  to  murder  her  and  to  mollify  her.  He  made 
haste  to  urge : 

"I  didn't  mean  to  upset  you,  dearie,  but  it's — you 
see — we're  depending  on  you — and — " 

He  put  out  his  clammy,  hairy  hands  to  caress  her, 
but  she  knocked  them  aside.  She  gave  him  a  look 
of  black  ferocity,  the  black  ferocity  of  a  desperate 
veteran  knowing  that  the  battle  is  going  wrong  and 
seeing  the  captain  turn  craven. 

Contempt  and  wrath  for  Blaumann,  who  had 
brought  panic  back  on  his  own  stage,  fear  and  terror 
of  the  public,  which  had  turned  thumbs  down  for 
the  other  gladiators  writhing  now  in  the  arena,  were 
all  knotted  in  her  daubed,  distorted,  unhuman  fea 
tures.  And  then — instantly — as  if  an  angel's  hand 

295 


"MOMMA" 

had  passed  over  them — they  were  soothed  into  a 
smile  of  heavenly  charm,  heavenly  grace. 

She  had  heard  her  cue,  and  her  features,  like 
trained  soldiers,  fell  into  line  almost  automatically. 

The  snarl  she  had  visited  on  Blaumann  turned  to 
an  arpeggio  of  laughter,  the  laughter  of  a  child  let 
out  of  school.  And  she  joined  the  hard-put  skir 
mishers  on  the  firing  line. 

Sally  Sloane  never  made  entrances.  She  just 
walked  into  a  room  or  ran  down  a  lane,  and  the  pub 
lic  happened  to  be  eavesdropping.  There  was  some 
thing  about  Sally  Sloane — you  could  only  call  it 
"something" — that  made  everything  all  right  when 
she  was  on  the  stage.  To-night,  as  usual,  her  pres 
ence  was  a  sort  of  panacea.  The  audience,  which 
had  been  trying  as  doggedly  to  be  amused  as  the 
troupe  to  amuse  it,  suddenly  felt  its  lockjaw  released. 
Sally  had  the  combination.  People  who  had  not 
smiled  at  masterpieces  of  wit  now  chuckled  and  held 
their  sides  in  ecstasy  at  a  mere  exhibition  of  good 
nature. 

She  said,  "How  d'you  do?"  and  by  some  magic  of 
delivery  it  seemed  a  personal  greeting  to  everybody ; 
her  hand  reached  out  and  enfolded  all  the  hands  in 
the  house. 

Blaumann,  watching  her  from  the  wings,  felt  his 
heart  unclutch  as  if  some  one  had  put  twenty  thou 
sand  dollars  into  his  palm  with  a  promise  of  more.' 
He  growled  to  the  stage  manager,  who  had  tiptoed 
up  to  watch  the  effect  of  Sally's  experience. 

"Sloane's  a  genius,  a  genuine  genius.  I  hate  her, 
but  I  love  her  work." 

He  decided  to  watch  her  work  from  the  front.  As 
he  squeezed  through  the  fire  door  he  went  galumph- 

296 


THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 

ing  over  a  pair  of  steps,  but  nobody  heard  him;  all 
ears  were  Sally  Sloane's;  all  eyes  hers,  and  waves 
of  laughter  were  chasing  one  another  up  to  the  shore 
line  of  the  footlights.  Once  more  Blaumann  stood 
and  perused  the  audience  from  the  dark  cave  behind 
the  boxes. 

The  miracle  had  been  wrought.  The  cabbage 
sprawl  had  become  lines  of  human  faces  in  profile, 
profiles  upon  profiles  all  pointing  one  way,  all  show 
ing  one  mood,  but  in  infinite  variety.  Every  imagin 
able  style  of  smile  was  there — from  the  shy  sniggle 
of  lean  old  souls  to  the  [quake-jelly  glee  of  the  fat, 
parsimonious  grins  from  hard  men  miserly  of  mirth; 
democratic  delight  from  high-bred  ladies,  and  un 
shackled  squeals  from  beauties  of  lesser  birth ;  care- 
effacing  smiles  on  careworn  faces  and  smiles  that 
turned  deep  old  wrinkles  to  sweet  new  uses. 

Blaumann  stood  in  the  shadow  and  gloated.  It 
was  not  an  entirely  commercial  emotion  that  led  him 
to  sigh  to  himself,  contentedly:  "A  pretty  sight!  A 
pretty  sight!" 

He  felt  like  a  philanthropist  looking  down  on  a 
Christmas  dinner  he  had  provided  for  a  horde  of 
newsboys.  But  he  made  no  bones  about  rendering 
the  credit  where  it  was  due.  He  said  to  the  first 
man  he  passed,  "Sloane's  got  'em  going!" 

The  man  answered,  "She's  so  pretty  she  makes 
folks  glad  to  be  alive." 

That  was  Sally's  gift.  Her  lines  were  unimpor 
tant — her  spoken  lines;  the  lines  her  costume  re 
vealed  were  important,  indeed,  to  her  success,  for 
they  spelled  youth,  grace,  rhythmic  charm.  The 
character  she  played  was  a  stenciled  figure.  The 
situations  the  author  had  placed  her  in  were  trite, 

20  297 


"MOMMA" 

and  the  music  was  a  mere  book  of  quotations.  But 
all  these  things  were  as  a  vase  to  a  flower.  The  per 
fume  and  the  grace  were  Sally's.  Her  secret  was 
herself. 

She  had  no  special  art  as  an  actress.  Number 
less  women  sang  with  better  skill  and  purer  tone, 
but  no  other  woman  had  so  much  dramatic  and 
vocal  craft  with  so  much  beauty  and  so  much  mag 
netism.  Her  beauty  was  so  great  that  it  had  an 
exultance  in  it,  like  a  sunrise  in  spring  or  the  Milky 
Way  on  a  June  midnight.  It  made  people  glad;  it 
made  people  wish  to  be  competent  poets.  Even 
women  acclaimed  her  beauty  and  did  not  envy  her 
it,  for  she  wore  her  crown  with  the  appeasing  gra- 
ciousness  of  a  queen  of  lineage. 

Millionaires  could  build  colleges  and  hospitals 
and  give  alms;  demagogues  could  extend  liberties 
and  uplift  the  downtrodden;  inventors  could  give 
speed  and  comfort  and  make  luxuries  cheap; 
preachers  and  priests  could  give  hope  and  courage 
and  good  counsel;  painters,  writers,  musicians, 
could  give  color  and  zest  and  song.  Sally  Sloane 
gave  joy.  She  deployed  for  the  public  her  per 
sonality,  her  body,  her  soul.  She  was  a  great  phi 
lanthropist,  a  founder  of  airy  institutions.  Eight 
times  a  week  she  gathered  a  throng  and  endowed  it 
with  the  joy  of  life. 

So,  this  night,  this  anxious  night,  she  came  on  the 
stage  like  a  lamp  into  a  dark  room.  She  frightened 
the  bogies  from  the  gloomy  audience  and  the  ghastly 
crew. 

She  carried  the  first  act  to  a  joyous  curtain — to 
many  curtains.  Then  she  ran  to  her  dressing  room, 
flung  off  her  finery,  dived  into  a  new  splendor  of 

298 


THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 

costume.  No.  88  had  come  and  gone,  but  there  was 
no  time  to  pause  for  telegrams,  and  the  baleful  mes 
sage  he  left  remained  unopened. 

The  next  act  brought  the  tide  of  success  higher 
upshore  and  ended  in  wild  salvos  of  ovation.  After 
the  company  and  groups  of  the  company  and  Sally 
alone  had  been  revealed  again  and  again,  the  com 
poser  was  called  for  to  make  his  gawky  bow.  The 
air  was  full  of  clamors  of  "Author!  Author!"  Peo 
ple  had  forgiven  or  forgotten  the  dolorous  wit  of  the 
early  evening,  and  he  who  was  once  a  scapegoat  was 
now  a  benefactor.  The  librettist  made  a  speech,  of 
course,  a  stupid  speech,  with  old  rubber-stamp 
"Thank  you's."  And  he  "especially  thanked  Miss 
Sloane  for  her,"  etc. 

Once  more  she  must  dash  to  her  room  and  throw 
off  one  suit  of  silken  armor  and  throw  on  another; 
a  hundred  hooks  and  eyes  and  buttons  and  pins  must 
be  engaged,  while  the  men,  smoking  in  the  foyer, 
voted  the  operetta  a  success  and  congratulated  Blau- 
mann.  Blaumann  strutted  like  any  pouter  pigeon 
— a  very  other  man  than  the  flabby  bivalve  that  had 
sprawled  so  helplessly  an  hour  ago. 

The  last  act  did  not  lose  the  ground  gained  before. 
Sally's  final  costume  was  generous  to  a  fault  in  its 
disclosure  of  her  many  graces,  but  her  face  was  the 
most  beautiful  of  her  beauties,  more  beautiful  even 
than  her  wonderful  shoulders  or  her  miraculous  legs ; 
and  the  light  in  her  eyes  was  more  beautiful  than  her 
eyes,  as  her  smile  was  sweeter  than  the  lips  it 
illumined. 

The  evening  closed  with  pomp.  The  members  of 
the  company  scattered  to  their  cells  to  return  them 
selves  to  mufti.  They  laid  their  plans  for  a  long 

299 


"MOMMA" 

season  in  the  big  town.  But  Sally  Sloane  must  stand 
fatigued  and  receive  the  congratulations  of  a  throng 
of  acquaintances.  Everybody  was  drunk  with  the 
new  wine  of  success,  and  everything  was  blissful 
until  one  woman — who  shall  know  with  what  in 
tention  ? — murmured : 

"And  how  young  you  looked,  dear!" 

The  tinkle  of  the  compliment  fell  on  Sally's  ears 
as  from  a  cracked  bell. 

Then  old  General  Buckley  must  roar  out,  with  a 
battlefield  sense  of  humor: 

"My  nephew  tells  me  he  has  succumbed  to  Sloan- 
itis,  just  as  I  did — how  many  years  ago  was  it? 
Good  Heavens,  how  tempus  does  fidget!" 

A  fly  is  a  small  thing,  but  it  can  spoil  a  deal  of 
precious  ointment.  Sally  boxed  the  old  general's 
ears.  She  passed  it  off  as  a  joke,  but  the  slap  was 
sincere.  She  just  had  to  box  those  ears.  The  gen 
eral  laughed,  and  cherished  it  as  a  red  badge  of 
glory. 

With  a  queen's  prerogative  Sally  dismissed  her 
court  and  fled  to  her  room.  Suddenly  the  taste  of 
success  soured  in  her  mouth,  a  too  sweet  candy. 
Exhilaration  fell  from  her  with  the  costumes  which 
her  maid  plucked  off  like  petals.  The  aftermath  of 
triumph  sank  upon  her  and  she  felt  the  drain  of  all 
the  strength  of  spirit  and  flesh  she  had  lavished  on 
the  crisis.  Smiling  was  her  trade  and  the  day's 
work  was  over;  her  very  muscles  ached  and  her 
nerves  were  like  worn  fiddle  strings. 

"I  feel  as  though  I  had  been  through  a  year  of 
one-night  stands,"  she  sighed,  as  she  dropped  into 
a  chair.  "And  I  look  it,"  she  added,  as  she  propped 
her  head  on  her  hands  and  stared  into  the  mirror. 

300 


THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 

She  dug  her  fingers  into  a  jar  of  cold  cream  and 
smeared  it  on  her  face,  scumbling  her  complexion 
into  a  gruesome  mess,  like  a  portrait  that  had  been 
stepped  on.  She  must  doff  one  disguise  and  don 
another  in  haste,  for  she  had  promised  herself  for 
supper  with  Henry  Creighton,  a  wealthy  devotee, 
whose  intentions  were  just  as  honorable  as  Sally 
might  compel  them  to  be.  She  liked  Creighton  in 
a  supercilious  way;  she  was  graduated  from  the 
school  of  illusions.  She  knew  that  she  could  have 
the  man  and  his  million,  in  marriage,  if  she  wanted 
to  take  them  at  so  dear  a  price  of  liberty.  She  knew, 
too,  that  a  large  part  of  his  admiration  was  for  the 
Sally  he  saw  across  the  footlights. 

He  was  the  typical  Tired  Business  Man,  and  patron 
of  all  that  frivols.  Being  a  trust  builder  by  trade,  he 
longed  to  monopolize  Sally  at  any  cost,  and  he  was 
forever  at  her  to  leave  the  stage — ' '  quit  the  business, ' ' 
as  the  phrase  is. 

But  Sally  knew  him  better  than  he  knew  himself, 
and,  weary  as  she  was  of  her  homelessness — she 
called  herself  a  dramatic  drummer — she  felt  that  her 
best  guaranty  of  Creighton's  fidelity  was  in  her 
elusiveness,  her  fame,  and  in  the  rivalry  of  a  many- 
headed  suitor,  the  public.  It  had  been  Sally's 
doctrine : 

"If  you  want  to  keep  a  man,  keep  him  jealous." 

Her  public  triumph  to-night  had  meant,  among 
so  many  other  successes,  a  new  control  over  Creigh 
ton.  She  had  overwhelmed  him  on  the  stage,  and 
now  she  planned  to  overwhelm  him  at  the  table. 
She  removed  the  heavy  daubery  of  the  professional 
varnish  and  began  a  new  veneer,  the  make-up  of  a 
lay  lady  for  close  inspection  under  a  lover's  micro- 

301 


"MOMMA" 

scopic  gaze.  She  had  laid  on  the  colors  crude  and 
thick  before,  as  if  she  had  been  painting  a  back 
drop.  Now  she  would  limn  herself  as  a  miniature. 
She  must  be  Monet  or  Meissonier,  as  the  test  varied. 

While  she  was  etching  the  new  likeness  her  maid 
reminded  her  that  there  were  several  telegrams  still 
unopened. 

"Read  them,"  said  Sally. 

The  yellow  girl  intoned  them  in  a  halting  voice 
that  lingered  over  the  large  words  with  an  Ethiopian 
passion  for  polysyllables.  Her  lumbering  elocution 
got  on  Sally's  nerves  and  interfered  with  the  master 
piece  she  was  at,  till  finally  she  snatched  the 
remainder  away  and  skimmed  them  with  hasty 
eyes,  which  softened  at  some  tender  remembrance, 
and  hardened  at  some  formal  congratulation  that 
breathed  policy  or  envy. 

And  so  at  length  she  reached  the  telegram  brought 
by  No.  88.  The  words  were  so  out  of  step  with  her 
other  messages  that  she  forgot  her  first  rule  of 
beauty,  and  frowned.  She  thought  she  had  received 
it  by  mistake.  Then  she  recognized  the  name  that 
was  signed.  The  message  read: 

Jenny  presented  me  with  twelve  pound  boy.  Congratulate 
you  on  being  grandmother  to  so  handsome  a  lad.  Jenny  doing 
as  well  as  could  be  expected. 

LUTHER  NELSON. 

Sally's  first  sensation  was  a  gush  of  tenderness  for 
her  daughter,  whom  she  always  thought  of  as  a 
babe.  And  now  that  babe  was  a  mother  with  a 
babe  of  her  own!  She  felt  a  flash  of  remembering 
sympathy  for  the  pain  and  the  terror  her  child  had 
undergone. 

302 


THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 

Then  a  cold  chill  shook  her  as  she  glanced  over 
the  message  again  and  came  upon  the  word  ' '  grand 
mother."  She  a  grandmother!  Sally  Sloane  a 
grandmother!  The  pet  of  the  public,  the  very  soul 
of  endless  youth,  already  thrust  back  two  genera 
tions,  and  labeled  "superfluous." 


ii 

She  had  winced  at  even  the  shadow  of  an  insinua 
tion  smuggled  in  with  the  compliment,  "How  young 
you  looked!"  She  had  boxed  an  old  general's  ears 
for  implying  that  she  had  a  past,  and  now  she  was  a 
— a  grandmother!  The  word  tolled  like  a  knell  from 
a  churchyard.  It  ached  in  her  ears,  shivered  in  her 
bones.  It  meant  to  her  what  insolvency  means  to 
a  financier.  It  meant  what  closing  the  doors  means 
to  one  whose  bank  has  been  a  Gibraltar.  Beauty 
was  her  power,  her  glory,  her  currency. 

She  stuffed  the  telegram  into  her  bosom,  where  so 
many  other  secrets  dwelt.  She  made  haste  to  get 
her  grease  paint  off.  When  at  last  she  had  emerged 
from  all  the  spurious  blushes  and  snow,  she  glared 
into  her  looking-glass  to  see  what  face  might  mock 
back  at  her. 

There  was  a  new  woman  in  that  magic  room 
through  the  window.  For  the  first  time  Sally  saw 
in  her  reflection  more  than  the  jade  of  overwork. 
There  was  a  weariness  there  which  massage  could 
never  blot  out.  The  rose  of  her  beauty  was  droop 
ing  in  the  petal.  She  descried  a  warning  wilting  that 
was  not  mere  absence  of  morning  dew. 

Sally  trembled  with  a  worse  than  stage  fright. 
She  was  reading  the  scathing  criticism  of  time;  she 

3°3 


"MOMMA" 

was  slated  already  for  the  sorrowful  company  of  the 
women  of  yesterday.  She  had  always  heard  a  voice 
wailing  after  her  hurrying  steps,  "Beware  the  Ides 
of  March!"  And  now  the  Ides  were  arrived. 

Still,  she  could  not  find  a  trace  of  grandmother. 
She  had  never  wasted  her  gifts  in  riotous  living.  She 
had  been  a  watchful  steward  of  her  one  talent. 
That  opulence  of  beauty  was  not  yet  squandered. 

She  would  not  have  it  that  she  was  a  grandmother. 
She  had  kept  youth  by  thinking  youth,  playing 
youth.  The  offer  of  a  r61e  in  which  anything  but 
youth  had  been  implied  had  been  counted  an  insult, 
and  it  insured  the  rejection  of  the  work.  She  had 
thought  young  so  long  that  she  and  the  almanac  had 
parted  company;  but  now,  with  a  rush  of  black 
wings,  an  evil  genie  caught  her  up  and  set  her  years 
along  the  road.  In  a  moment  she  was  middle-aged. 

She  hung  upon  her  reflection  a  weary  while.  The 
maid  watched  and  wondered,  but  could  not  guess 
what  thoughts  were  clamoring  in  that  exquisite 
head. 

Sally  was  remembering  back  over  her  life.  It  had 
been  longer  than  she  dreamed.  With  the  Ariel  speed 
of  thought  her  memory  flitted  from  her  own  child 
hood  to  her  earliest  betrothal,  to  the  earliest  of  her 
marriages,  and  the  little  girl  it  had  brought  her. 

That  marriage,  for  all  its  romance,  had  not  fared 
well.  Its  unhappiness  had  driven  her  from  a  home 
of  discontent  to  the  restless  gypsying  of  an  actress. 
At  first  she  could  not  afford  to  keep  her  child  with 
her.  Rehearsals  and  hard  travel  had  made  it  neces 
sary  to  give  the  babe  into  the  ward  of  strangers. 
When  prosperity  came  it  brought  money,  but  no 
surcease  of  the  Arab  existence.  The  child  had  gained 

3°4 


THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 

more  and  more  advantages,  but  not  a  mother.  It 
had  seemed  best  to  the  hard-worked  singer  to  keep 
the  little  girl  away  from  the  life  she  knew.  People 
protect  their  children's  illusions  the  more  desper 
ately,  the  more  completely  they  lose  their  own. 

As  Sally  grew  deeper  and  deeper  versed  in  life 
the  more  she  loved  it  for  herself  and  loathed  it  for 
her  innocent  girl.  She  put  the  child  into  a  convent 
as  into  a  place  of  cold  soul-storage,  where  corruption 
could  not  come. 

Sally's  two  hapless  marriages,  with  their  noisy 
divorces,  had  widened  the  gulf  between  the  child 
and  the  mother.  Besides,  public  success  made  it 
inadvisable  to  parade  the  fact  of  maternity.  Of  all 
the  forms  of  publishing  her  fame,  the  fact  of  moth 
erhood  was  the  least  likely  to  enhance  her  wares. 
Even  the  all-disgorging  press  agent  suppressed  that. 
She  was  the  public's  sweetheart  and  it  would  de 
throne  her  the  moment  she  became  a  matron. 

A  woman  of  the  stage  becomes,  of  necessity,  the 
father  rather  than  the  mother  of  her  children.  Live 
lihood  is  the  first  consideration,  and  then  the  pro 
viding  of  luxuries.  A  father  is  not  expected  to  per 
mit  his  children  to  interfere  with  his  business  or  his 
ambition.  Even  if  he  is  a  widower  he  is  not  expected 
to  give  them  cuddling  and  tucking  in  of  nights.  So, 
an  actress,  a  wanderer  by  trade,  can  not  often  lavish 
on  her  little  ones  the  attentions  that  far  less  eager 
mothers  waste  on  their  least-loved  offspring. 

At  the  hour  when  children  are  going  to  roost  and 
fairy  stories  are  told,  prayers  heard,  and  good-night 
kisses  given — at  that  sacred  hour  of  mothering  the 
actress  must  be  most  busily  at  work.  And  in  the 
morning,  when  children  leap  back  to  life,  if  she 

305 


"MOMMA" 

would  conserve  her  capital  of  beauty  and  energy, 
there  must  be  quiet  about  the  house.  Rehearsals 
at  all  hours,  matinees  and  extra  matinees,  and  a 
sailor's  readiness  for  indefinite  cruises  and  unfore 
seen  hardships — these  abnormalities  play  havoc 
with  instincts  as  with  customs. 

And  so,  with  the  lovingest  soul  imaginable,  and 
with  the  most  normal  of  cravings  for  her  child's 
companionship,  Sally  Sloane  had  little  of  it.  Even 
in  her  summer  seasons  she  sang  in  cheaper  troupes 
at  half  her  winter  salary.  And  so — and  so — during 
the  early  years  of  her  baby's  life  she  was  compelled 
to  be  away  from  her  until  what  had  been  a  necessity 
became  a  habit  and  seemed  still  to  be  a  necessity. 

Thus,  Sally  Sloane  had  floated  along  her  years 
until,  one  day  she  was  startled  to  have  a  letter  from 
her  daughter  announcing  that  she  was  going  to 
marry.  The  daughter  had  borne  Sally's  first  hus 
band's  last  name,  and  not  Sally's  stage  pseu 
donym,  and  her  marriage  attracted  no  attention 
from  the  press. 

Sally  had  tormented  her  glorious  eyes  by  crying 
a  good  deal  between  performances,  and  had  sent 
many  telegrams  and  letters  begging  the  girl  not  to 
make  haste  to  marry.  But  we  take  our  parents' 
traits  more  easily  than  their  advice,  and  Sally's 
daughter  married  as  Sally  had  married,  at  seventeen. 
To  the  Sally  of  now  it  seemed  like  an  elopement  from 
the  nursery,  and  when  she  saw  the  bride's  photo 
graph  she  could  not  believe  that  this  tall  and  serious 
woman  was  her  own  offspring. 

Sally  cried  some  more,  and  sent  beautiful  gifts 
and  some  more  letters,  and  then — went  her  way. 
A  new  production  absorbed  her,  body  and  soul.  It 

306 


THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 

was  a  failure,  and  a  fresh  work  must  be  sought  and 
prepared.  It  was  a  success,  but  not  a  triumph,  and 
a  third  vehicle  was  sought.  At  the  end  of  the  dilapi 
dating  season  her  doctor  urged  her  to  go  to  Europe 
and  lose  herself  in  strange  environments. 

The  next  year  found  her  again  on  a  treadmill. 
Unusual  difficulties,  unusual  anxieties,  had  dogged 
every  step  of  this  latest  production,  but  the  result 
was  this  golden  evening,  the  triumph  of  her  lifetime. 

She  was  at  the  very  apex  of  her  career.  In  cos 
tume  she  looked  nineteen;  off  the  stage  she  would 
have  been  rated  at  twenty-six;  her  enemies  said  she 
was  thirty.  She  never  said  anything.  But  nobody 
would  have  guessed  the  truth;  and  she  herself  had, 
from  sheer  lack  of  practice,  almost  lost  count  of 
birthdays.  Nobody  would  have  guessed  that  her 
last  had  been  her  thirty-sixth.  Anyone  would  rather 
have  called  truth  a  liar  and  the  calendar  a  cheat. 

It  was  tragic  enough  to  be  thirty-six,  but  to  be  a 
grandmother  at  thirty-six.  For  her  to  be  a  grand 
mother  at  all — 

"It's  an  outrage,  that's  what  it  is,  an  outrage!" 

"Wha'd  you  say,  Miss  Sally?" 

She  found  herself  standing  erect,  with  fists 
clenched,  the  maid  staring  at  her. 

"Nothing,"  she  said,  and  collapsed  to  her  chair, 
feeling  ridiculous.  But  she  could  not  smother  the 
idea  that  she  was  the  victim  of  treachery  somewhere. 
The  child  that  she  had  brought  into  the  world, 
slaved  for,  loaded  with  every  luxury — that  child 
had  played  a  mean  trick  on  her  poor  mother.  She 
had  ungratefully  grown  up,  had  selfishly  married, 
and  now — this! 

A  knock  at  the  door. 

307 


"MOMMA" 

"Mr.  Creighton  wants  to  know  if  you  are  ready. 
Supper  was  ordered  for  twelve  o'clock." 

"Tell  him  I'll  be  ready  in  a  minute." 

Here  was  a  brief  escape,  at  least,  from  the  corro 
sive  thought  of  age.  She  had  been  trained  by  many 
emergencies  of  railroad  delay  and  exigencies  of  role 
to  costume  herself  with  the  speed  of  a  fireman.  Her 
maid  could  move,  too,  under  spur,  and  the  dressing 
room  was  pyrotechnic  with  flying  raiment.  Hooks 
were  snapped  in  place  like  harness  on  a  fire  horse, 
and  she  was  amazingly  prompt  upon  her  promise. 

She  made  a  last  survey  of  the  woman  in  the  mirror. 
She  smiled  to  see  how  gracefully  her  image  lied.  Her 
victory  over  time  delighted  her  so  that  her  heart 
melted  toward  her  ungrateful  child  and  she  was 
impelled  to  send  a  telegram. 

She  refused  to  permit  Creighton  to  take  it  or  to 
call  a  boy,  and  insisted  that  his  car  must  be  stopped 
at  an  all-night  telegraph  office.  He  must  remain 
outside,  too,  while  she  scribbled  a  few  words  of  love 
and  a  formula  of  rejoicing. 

Her  discretion  did  not  desert  her,  and  her  telegram 
was  so  worded  that  it  did  not  divulge  its  real  history 
even  to  the  shabby  clerk  who  repeated  it  with  lips 
that  stuttered  in  the  presence  of  the  famous  diva 
who  had  alighted  like  a  meteorite  in  his  dingy  office. 

When  Sally  rejoined  Creighton  he  was  fuming 
with  jealous  rage.  He  astutely  proved  to  himself, 
and  tried  to  prove  to  her,  that  her  telegram  was  sent 
to  some  man,  some  absent  lover. 

Sally  found  a  drop  of  humorous  solace  in  the  situa 
tion.  It  suggested  a  scenario  to  her.  Sally  thought 
in  scenarios.  It  struck  her  that  she  would  like  to 
play  the  part.  Then  she  realized  that  it  would  mean 

308 


THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 

a  public  performance  of  a  grandam,  and  she  decided 
that  the  play  was  not  available  for  her. 

But  it  confirmed  her  cynic  attitude  to  realize  that 
the  false  suspicion  and  the  groundless  jealousy  of 
Creighton  actually  increased  her  value  in  his  green 
eyes,  while  the  knowledge  of  the  sweet,  simple,  old- 
fashioned  truth  would  have  sent  his  love  howling. 

This  titbit  was  as  sweetly  sharp  to  her  palate  as 
a  candied  lime.  It  kept  her  intensely  amused  at 
intervals  throughout  the  session  at  the  table.  Never 
had  she  received  such  ardent  court  from  Creighton, 
now  emulous  of  an  imaginary  rival  whom  he  en 
dowed  with  romantic  fascinations  and  greater  wealth 
than  his  own. 

But  Sally  laughed  off  his  advances  in  the  automo 
bile  and  suppressed  his  surreptitious  love  at  the 
supper,  where  he  had  gathered  a  brilliant  crowd  to 
witness  her  triumph  and  his  own  in  hers.  He  dis 
played  his  captive  queen  as  if  she  were  Thusnelda 
and  he  Germanicus. 

Everything  was  jubilation;  everybody  chattered 
congratulation;  everybody  claimed,  "How  young 
you  look!" 

' '  How  young  you  look ! "  ' '  How  young  you  look ! ' ' 
Would  they  never  stop  saying,  "How  young  you 
look ! "  ?  It  ran  through  Sally's  head  like  a  loathsome 
tune  that  sticks  in  the  memory  the  more  for  being 
hated. 

One  man  began :  "To  look  at  you,  Miss  Sloane, one 
could  never  believe  that  you  had  had  such  a  career. 
I  remember  your  debut.  Let  me  see,  it  was  in — " 

He  had  sense  enough  to  stop  short  before  the 
daggers  of  her  eyes. 

To-night  she  was  making  another  debut,  an  un- 
3°9 


"MOMMA" 

suspected  premie're  in  the  ranks  of  the  dowagers. 
She  got  through  the  evening  somehow  by  alternate 
spasms  of  reckless  joy  in  her  secret  and  of  terror  at 
its  inevitable  discovery.  She  felt  all  the  emotions 
of  an  embezzling  cashier  squandering  stolen  funds 
and  unable  to  escape.  There  was  no  city  or  country 
of  refuge  for  Sally;  relentless  extradition  would  fol 
low  her  everywhere. 

in 

She  woke  next  day  in  a  wreck  of  reaction.  The 
first  thing  to  see  was  the  newspapers.  They  were 
almost  all  glowing,  but  Sally  took  no  pleasure  in 
the  rhapsodies  of  the  critics.  This  one  said, 
"Sally  Sloane  has  accomplished  the  impossible. 
She  is  more  beautiful  than  even  she  has  ever  been." 
Another  wrote:  "Sally  Sloane  is  a  living  sonnet. 
Every  one  of  her  fourteen  lines  is  a  poem  of  itself; 
the  scansion  and  the  rime  are  perfect."  A  third 
exclaimed:  "Miss  Sloane's  beauty  is  important. 
It  has  authority.  Nature  created  her  on  a  summer 
afternoon  and  made  her  not  of  clay,  but  of  sunbeams 
and  lilies."  Sally  read  the  raptures  with  a  sense  of 
hypocrisy,  of  thievishness.  Between  the  lines  she 
read  everywhere  one  condemning  word.  On  the 
wall  a  hand  had  written  her  Mene,  Mene,  Tekel, 
Upharsin.  She  was  afraid  of  her  mirror,  and  even 
curiosity  could  not  tempt  her  to  peek  at  it. 
The  maid,  dressing  her,  exclaimed : 
"Why,  Miss  Sally,  if  here  isn't  a  white  hair!" 
Since  girlhood  such  estrays  had  happened  now 
and  then  upon  her  golden  head,  but  they  were  freaks 
of  nature.  This  white  thread  chilled  her  like  the 
first  snowflake  of  winter. 

310 


THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 

After  a  breakfast,  over  which  she  drooped  de 
spondent,  she  took  up  the  necessary  letter  to  her 
daughter.  The  compulsory  cheer  was  so  difficult 
and  forced  that  it  showed  through  all  the  phrases. 
In  a  mid- Western  town  the  daughter  felt  the  un- 
warmth,  and  turned  with  a  sigh  to  the  new-come 
pride  lying  in  her  arm.  The  young  father,  in  all  the 
epoch-making  conceit  of  first  fatherhood,  was  angered. 

"We'll  have  to  cut  your  mother  out." 

He  wrote  a  cold  and  formal  acknowledgment  of 
her  letter.  He  shook  his  head  in  disgust  at  the  need 
of  addressing  a  letter  to  the  grandmother  of  his  son 
as  "Miss  Sally  Sloane."  The  incident  was  closed. 
The  rift  widened  to  a  gulf.  The  letter  Sally  meant 
to  write  to-day  was  put  off  till  to-morrow,  and  the 
morrow  was  always  the  next  day.  She  was  like  the 
rest  of  us  who  love  our  kin  and  would  die  for  them, 
but  do  not  write  them. 

Besides,  Sally  was  a  business  woman  as  well  as 
an  artist.  There  were  rehearsals  for  revision;  re 
hearsals  for  understudies;  photographs  innumer 
able  ;  interviews  with  people  of  every  sort. 

Sally's  new  rdle  gave  her  a  new  vogue.  Creighton 
was  a  frantic  suitor,  never  forgetful  of  the  mysterious 
lover  whom  Sally  had  telegraphed  to  that  night. 
Society  took  up  Sally  with  a  growing  interest  in  her 
vivacity  which  enhanced  her  beauty  as  she  tried  to 
outrun  time  and  crowd  always  more  and  more  gayety 
into  the  few  hours  before  her  doom  should  be  de 
creed  and  proclaimed.  She  was  fleeing  always  from 
Fate,  shutting  her  eyes  to  the  milestones  as  if  that 
annulled  them.  And  all  the  while,  day  and  night, 
one  word  buzzed  in  her  heart  like  the  ringing  in  the 
ears  of  a  man  going  deaf — "Gr-r-randmother-r-r!" 


"MOMMA" 

Her  mirror  became  a  vice.  She  was  addicted  to 
it  as  to  a  hated  drug  whose  habit  she  could  not 
shake  off.  Every  new  wrinkle,  real  or  imagined,  was 
a  scar  on  her  comfort;  every  hollowness,  fullness, 
sallowness,  flush,  confirmed  the  verdict — Guilty! 

The  pride  of  seeming  young,  the  advantage  of 
playing  youth,  the  glory  of  convincing  others  of 
youth,  were  only  an  irony.  She  took  up  the  battle 
for  beauty,  visited  its  doctors,  studied  its  lore,  made 
her  skin  the  laboratory  of  every  nostrum  that 
quackery  devised. 

And  so  she  ran  through  life,  a  vain  fugitive  from 
her  own  shadow.  The  opera  lasted  a  year  in  New 
York,  then  half  a  year  in  Chicago.  Three  other 
towns  pieced  out  the  second  season. 

Creighton  pleaded  for  a  cruise  on  his  yacht,  and 
offered  to  let  Sally  choose  her  own  entourage  of 
chaperons  and  time  destroyers.  She  was  weary  of 
land  travel.  She  needed  a  sea  change.  So  she 
went.  Eventually  the  yacht  touched  at  Gibraltar 
and  took  up  the  mail  that  had  accumulated  there. 

In  the  mass  awaiting  Sally  was  a  belated  cable 
gram  from  Luther  Nelson,  saying  that  his  wife  was 
dead.  The  blow  was  cruel  to  Sally  and  remorse 
crushed  her.  She  found  no  defense  in  her  own  heart, 
but  condemned  herself  for  every  fault  she  had  com 
mitted,  and  more.  Her  grief  was  so  devastating  that 
she  was  forced  to  explain  it  to  her  host.  It  seemed  to 
her  a  sort  of  penance  to  confess  to  Creighton  the  weight 
of  her  iniquity.  She  had  deceived  him,  neglected  her 
child  unnaturally, and  she  deserved  a  shameful  death. 

Creighton  was  stunned  at  first,  but  his  heart 
warmed  with  the  necessity  of  consolation  and  he 
found  himself  looking  upon  Sally  with  eyes  into 

312 


THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 

which  a  certain  respect,  perhaps  a  hint  of  reverence, 
had  crept.  He  reminded  her  of  her  sacrifices  for 
her  child,  of  the  luxuries  she  had  given  her,  of  the 
lavishness  with  which  she  had  given  the  baby  and 
the  girl  comfort  and  peace  while  she  herself  under 
went  hard  travel,  hard  labor,  and  the  hard  usage  of 
the  public.  He  tried  to  persuade  her  that  she  had 
done  for  her  child  far  more  than  most  mothers  do. 
He  did  not  persuade  her,  but  he  assuaged  her  grief 
somewhat,  and  he  counseled  her  to  keep  the  matter 
a  secret  from  the  rest  of  the  party,  whose  knowledge 
of  it  could  only  be  embarrassing. 

Sally  sent  long  and  hysterical  cables  to  her  son- 
in-law,  and  the  yacht  sailed  on  into  the  Mediter 
ranean.  She  had  now  remorse  as  well  as  time  to 
flee,  and  she  discovered  in  Creighton  a  companion 
of  unsuspected  seriousness  and  gentleness. 

When  the  yacht  returned  to  New  York  Sally  found 
Blaumann  with  his  route  booked  for  the  third  sea 
son.  It  covered  the  less  large  cities,  with  blocks  of 
one-night  stands  between. 

Sally  looked  over  the  route  with  dread.  She  had 
known  so  much  of  such  hackwork  in  her  early  years 
that  there  was  horror  in  the  mere  memory  of  cheap 
hotels,  shoddy  rooms,  and  half-baked  towns  with  no 
traditions,  no  monuments,  no  landscapes,  no  gardens, 
no  "sights"  to  while  away  the  boredom  of  strangers. 

It  pained  her  to  feel  that  the  fatigue  of  travel  was 
daunting  her  high  spirits.  She  put  it  on  the  ground 
of  pride. 

When  she  told  Blaumann  that  the  season  looked 
too  hard  to  her,  he  answered,  agape : 

"You  talk  like  an  old  woman." 

The  mere  suggestion  stung  her  to  denial,  and  she 

21 


"MOMMA" 

signed  the  contract  at  once,  after  stipulating  that  a' 
private  car  should  be  at  her  disposal  and  that  she 
should  have  an  enlarged  share  of  the  profits.  Al 
ready  she  was  beginning  to  think  of  storing  up  prov 
ender  for  hibernation. 

Blaumann  granted  her  new  demands  with  a  show 
of  resistance,  and  she  set  forth  once  more. 

Cities  now  saw  her  that  had  known  only  the  rumor 
of  her  fame;  she  remembered  them  as  a  humble 
underling  who  had  made  no  impress  among  the 
traveling  mummers,  but  the  towns  knew  her  as  the 
famous  artist  whom  the  metropolitans  had  monopo 
lized.  Critics  and  public  treated  her  as  a  queen  in 
progress  through  outlying  corners  of  her  dominions. 
The  extravagance  of  her  unequaled  success  stimu 
lated  her  till  she  forgot  fatigue  and  almost  lost  the 
obsession  of  age.  Her  conquests  were  so  new  that 
they  renewed  her.  And  as  the  season  piled  up 
homage  her  bank  account  swelled  with  an  income 
that  even  Creighton  viewed  almost  with  jealousy. 

The  tour  ended  in  St.  Louis  on  a  warm  Saturday. 
The  last  matinee  gathered  a  crowd  of  self -asphyxiat 
ing  dimensions  and  enthusiasm  combining  Western 
and  Southern  warmth. 

At  the  end  of  the  last  act  she  came  bounding  from 
the  scene  laden  with  bouquets,  with  which  she  in 
undated  her  maid  waiting  at  her  dressing-room  door. 
The  maid  spoke  through  a  trellis  of  flowers : 

"There's  a  gempman  to  see  you.  Mr.  Nelson, 
he  says  his  name  is." 

IV 

The  unexpectedness  of  the  visit  smote  Sally  dumb. 
She  paused  in  a  tyro's  embarrassment.  Sorrow  for 


THE  QUICKSILVER  WINDOW 

her  dead  child  swept  over  her  amain.  She  forgot 
everything  else,  forgot  that  she  was  dressed  as  a 
comic-opera  princeling,  with  jaunty  cap  set  on  short 
curls  of  gold,  bolero  jacket  and  sash,  velvet  knee- 
breeches,  silk  stockings  and  pumps,  and  a  long  man 
tle  flying  back  from  her  shoulders.  She  had  worn 
the  costume  so  much  that  it  meant  nothing  to  her. 

But  it  shocked  the  tall  and  solemn  young  man  she 
found  within.  He  still  wore  mourning  for  his  wife, 
and  this  was  his  first  meeting  with  her  mother.  He 
winced  with  a  stitch  of  jealousy  to  see  how  much 
fairer  and  younger  this  eerie  creature  looked  than 
the  weary  young  mother  whom  illness  had  worn  to 
a  wraith. 

Sally  stared  at  the  sober  business  man  before  her, 
so  much  stranger  than  any  other  stranger.  She  put 
out  her  hand,  and  stammered : 

"Mr.  Nelson!  Luther,  I  suppose  I  should  call 
you — I — I'm  very  glad  to  see  you!" 

"And  I  to  see  you,  Mrs. — Miss — "  He  could  not 
think  what  name  to  call  her.  "Miss  Sloane"  was 
intolerable,  and  any  other  name  was  unwarranted. 

Custom  seemed  to  enforce  more  than  a  handshake 
with  one's  son-in-law,  and  Sally  tiptoed  to  kiss  him. 
He  bent  down  in  confusion,  and  their  lips  met. 

Sally  felt  the  alien  awkwardness  of  his  greeting, 
but  he  felt  more  than  that.  He  felt  an  incongruity 
so  crass  that  it  was  almost  sacrilege.  And  he  tasted 
rouge  and  powder. 

Both  tried  to  speak,  and  neither  could  scare  up  a 
word.  Silence  fell  upon  them.  It  was  broken  sud 
denly  by  a  gurgle  of  babyish  rapture  and  a  childish 
cry: 

"Oh  see,  de  pretty  boy!" 


"MOMMA" 

Sally  whirled,  to  find  a  chubby  cherub  perched  on 
a  chair  and  clapping  his  hands  at  her  bravery. 

She  felt  no  need  to  ask  his  name.  In  his  eyes  and 
mouth  she  saw  her  own  lost  child  restored  to  baby 
hood.  She  went  all  mother  and  caught  the  squirm 
ing  youngster  to  her  breast.  He  patted  her  cheeks 
with  hands  warm  and  soft,  and  kept  up  his  gurgling : 

"Such  a  pretty,  pretty  boy!" 

His  delight  thrilled  Sally  so  that  she  took  no 
shame  to  herself,  but  the  man  expostulated: 

"But,  son,  that  isn't  a  boy;  that's — that's — " 

The  child  stared  from  his  father  to  the  prince  in 
whose  arms  he  rode.  His  little  brows  were  befud 
dled.  And  then  Sally  said  it. 

"I'm  your  grandmother." 

The  word  was  out.  The  secret  published.  Un 
consciously  Sally  gathered  her  mantle  about  her,  and 
the  boy  she  had  played  vanished  as  in  the  cloak  of 
a  magician. 

The  child  threw  about  her  the  arms  of  possession. 
He  had  found  what  his  lonely  little  soul  was  pining 
for,  and  he  hugged  her  till  he  hurt. 

Sally  buried  her  lips  in  the  pink  of  roses  of  his  fat 
neck,  and  she,  too,  felt  the  rapture  of  possession,  the 
joy  of  being  needed. 

When  she  raised  her  eyes  there  were  tears  in  them, 
but  they  were  like  jewels,  like  rescuing  rain.  She 
found  herself  facing  her  mirror,  and  she  gazed  with 
out  fear  of  what  it  might  reflect — now  or  ever. 

She  knew  the  worst,  and  it  was  good. 


XII 
THE  DAUNTLESS  BOOKKEEPER 

T  TNDER  the  green  eyeshade — under  the  thick  eye- 
^  glasses  under  the  green  eyeshade — under  the 
heavy  eyelids  under  the  thick  eyeglasses  under  the 
green  eyeshade  under  the  green  drop  light,  the  book 
keeper's  weary  eyeballs  shuttled  to  and  fro.  He 
could  not  strike  his  trial  balance.  It  was  just 
ten  thousand  dollars  askew. 

Inasmuch  as  the  total  business  of  Spiegel's  Owego 
Emporium  for  six  months  would  not  have  reached 
that  sum,  the  bookkeeper  was  worried,  and  worse. 

It  was  late — so  late  that  it  was  early.  By  ten 
o'clock  nearly  every  light  in  the  business  district  of 
Owego  was  out,  except  the  green  drop  light  over  the 
long-legged  desk  where  Horace  Wadhams  sat  among 
his  lank  limbs  like  a  huge,  broken  umbrella.  He 
was  studying  a  ponderous  volume  of  his  own 
composition.  For  hours  and  hours  he  added,  and 
re-added,  and  re-re-added,  cords  of  columns,  but  he 
could  not  find  the  missing  ten  thousand  dollars. 

And  so  he  moiled  till  the  first  rattletrap  milk 
wagon  went  crackling  down  the  street. 

Filled  with  despair,  and  haggard  for  sleep,  the 
bookkeeper  pushed  back  his  eyeshade,  dropped 
down  from  his  eyrie,  and  went  to  the  window.  The 
starless  sky  looked  like  an  ocean  upside  down,  and 
that  reminded  him  of  the  romance  he  had  been 


"MOMMA" 

reading  the  past  few  days  in  what  little  leisure  book 
keepers  enjoy.  It  was  Jules  Verne's  Ten  Thousand 
Leagues  Under  the —  All  of  a  heap,  Wadhams  realized 
where  the  mysterious  ten  thousand  had  come  from. 
His  subconsciousness  of  the  story  had  obtruded  itself 
on  his  work,  the  wires  had  crossed,  and  he  had  ab 
sent-mindedly  tucked  the  ten  thousand  into  a  crevice 
in  his  addition. 

This  thing  had  happened  before.  While  he  was 
submerged  in  the  tale  of  The  Count  of  Monte 
Cristo,  he  had  caught  himself  beginning  a  column 
with  the  fatal  "One!  Two!  Three!"  On  another 
occasion  he  had  found  himself  entering  in  his  day 
book,  among  such  items  as  "Mrs.  L.  K.  Schuster, 
two  rolls  oilcloth,"  "Mrs.  N.  C.  Hassett,  six  yards 
insertion,"  "N.  C.  Peabody,  one  lawn  mower" — 
among  such  items  he  had  caught  himself  inserting: 
"Henry  M.  Stanley,  six  crocodiles,  four  natives, 
three  rhinoceroses."  It  had  taken  a  deal  of  work 
with  the  ink  eradicator  to  efface  this  dangerous 
aberration. 

For,  while  a  rolling  eye  and  an  absent  mind  may 
be  a  fine  thing  in  a  poet,  they  are  not  pardoned  in  a 
bookkeeper. 

Horace  Wadhams  was  underpaid  and  overworked 
at  the  Emporium,  and  he  was  underfed  and  over- 
lodged  at  Mrs.  Magomn's  boarding  house.  But  the 
rag  carpet  in  his  little  bedroom  was  a  magic  carpet, 
and  of  evenings,  as  he  sat  creaking  precariously  in 
a  wicker-bottomed  chair,  with  a  book  from  the  cir 
culating  library  between  the  long,  sharp  elbows  on 
his  long,  skinny  legs,  the  genie  of  imagination  swept 
him  through  the  walls  and  out  across  the  world. 
The  rag-carpet  genie  had  an  incongruous  passenger 

318 


THE  DAUNTLESS  BOOKKEEPER 

in  Wadhams;  he  was  as  grotesque  in  his  store 
clothes  as  Don  Quixote  in  his  tinware,  but  his  soul 
was  as  high  and  his  fancy  as  free. 

Wadhams  affected  especially  books  of  adventur 
ous  travel.  He  knew  more  about  forbidden  Tibet 
than  he  did  about  Broadway.  He  would  have  been 
lost  in  Central  Park,  but  he  could  have  taken 
you  by  the  hand  and  led  you  across  Africa  in  the 
track  of  Livingstone  on  a  cloudy  night.  Though  he 
drank  nothing  stronger  than  the  partial  coffee  or 
the  pallid  tea  of  Mrs.  Magoffin,  he  saw  strange 
shapes  wherever  he  looked.  Across  his  ledgers  at 
times  ran  trumpeting  elephant  herds;  in  his  ink 
stand  coiled  an  inflated  cobra;  with  his  pen  he 
speared  many  a  deadly  jer  de  lance. 

At  the  boarding  house,  if  he  spoke  at  all,  it  was  of 
exploration  or  adventure;  his  table  talk  was  spiced 
with  picturesque  words  like  assegai,  ice  floe,  felucca, 
mushroom  bullet,  quetzal,  iguana,  sandalwood,  cop 
ra,  coral  atoll,  simoom,  and  lagoon. 

The  most  scandalous  thing  Wadhams  did  was  to 
stay  home  from  church.  He  did  this  so  regularly 
that  it  was  almost  a  religion  of  itself.  But  he  did 
not  waste  this  period  on  the  bulky  Sabbath  news 
papers  that  came  up  from  New  York;  he  spent  it 
in  the  company  of  wilderness  threaders  and  horizon- 
haters. 

And  so  he  lived  his  life  unhonored,  unsung,  un 
married,  and  unimportant.  Aside  from  his  book 
voyages,  his  travels  were  confined  to  the  trips  up 
and  down  his  ledger  columns  and  to  that  stretch  of 
sidewalk  between  the  boarding  house  and  the  Em 
porium,  though  he  sometimes  varied  this  by  walking 
a  block  or  two  out  of  his  way — "for  exercise." 


"MOMMA" 

His  was  a  life  of  double  entry.  In  that  boarding- 
house  cell  he  fought  maddened  pumas  with  a  wood 
man's  ax;  he  scaled  ghastly  precipices  where  his 
least  whisper  would  have  brought  down  avalanches; 
he  staggered  across  alkaline  hells,  mumbling  with 
split  lips  and  black  tongue  for  water,  water,  water; 
he  found  whiskered  tarantulas  under  his  pillow;  he 
saw  the  one-eyed  octopod  leering  at  him  and  thrust 
ing  snaky  arms  from  under  his  bed;  he  heard  the 
first  greedy  flames  snickering  in  the  fagots  of  the 
cannibals  (or,  as  he  preferred  to  call  them,  the  an 
thropophagi) ;  down  the  early  morning  streets  of 
Owego  he  heard  the  black  wolves  come  howling  and 
hungry;  under  his  door  he  heard  the  sniff  of  the 
famished  leopard ;  and  if  a  branch  of  the  maple  tree 
outside  swished  at  his  window,  he  shuddered  lest  a 
shaggy  pygmy  be  perched  there  with  poisoned  blow 
gun  aimed.  It  was  more  than  Mrs.  Magoffin's  food 
that  kept  him  thin  and  sharp. 

But  all  his  adventures  were  by  proxy.  He  never 
had  anything  deserving  the  name  "event"  that  he 
could  call  his  very  own.  And  then  one  day,  one  long- 
delayed  day,  something  actually  happened  to  him. 
A  distant  relative  became  still  more  distant,  leaving 
her  dear  kinsman  an  altogether  unforeseen  legacy  of 
fifteen  hundred  dollars.  The  shock  was  so  great  that 
Wadhams  came  near  joining  the  distant  relative. 

The  effect  on  his  boarding-house  status  was  noth 
ing  short  of  revolution.  Mrs.  MagofHn  put  butter 
in  his  coffee  at  breakfast  and  offered  him  a  second 
dish  of  cherries  at  supper.  But — and  this  you  will 
hardly  believe — when  he  walked  into  the  Emporium 
and  reached  for  his  alpaca  desk  coat,  the  proprietor, 
Mr.  Spiegel,  said: 

320 


THE  DAUNTLESS  BOOKKEEPER 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Wadhams." 

This  was  almost  more  exciting  than  fifteen  hun 
dred  dollars.  Wadhams  could  hardly  hold  his  pen 
for  thinking  of  it.  To  cap  it  all,  the  proprietor  took 
him  to  dinner  at  Shanahan's  Bonanza  Restaurant. 
There  Mr.  Spiegel  told  him  that  he  had  always  liked 
him  and  his  work,  and  that,  as  a  favor  to  an  old 
friend,  he  would  sell  him  an  interest  in  the  business. 

But  Wadhams  knew  the  business — from  the  inside. 
So  he  declined,  with  many  apologies.  Then  Mr. 
Spiegel  graciously  offered  to  borrow  the  fifteen  hun 
dred  on  a  long-time  loan  at  6  per  cent.  Wadhams 
mentally  computed  the  interest  at  ninety  dollars  a 
year,  with  a  fair  chance  of  getting  neither  it  nor  the 
principal.  So  he  declined  once  more,  with  profuse 
apologies  and  perspiration. 

Mr.  Spiegel's  temperature  dropped  twenty  degrees 
Fahrenheit,  and  he  said: 

"Veil,  I  metch  you  to  see  who  pays  for  the  lunch." 

Wadhams  did  not  believe  in  gambling,  but  he 
matched,  and  paid.  His  fortune  was  now  reduced 
to  fourteen  hundred  and  ninety-nine  dollars  and 
forty  cents.  He  realized  that  he  must  avoid  ruin 
ous  hospitalities. 

Many  days  passed  while  Wadhams  wondered 
what  to  do  with  his  fortune.  Much  advice  was 
given  him,  most  of  it  involving  a  commission  of  some 
kind  for  the  adviser.  But  Wadhams  shook  his  head. 

He  had  a  letter  from  his  mother,  who  lived  on  a 
farm  at  Oscawana.  She  advised  him  to  apply  the 
money  to  the  mortgage  on  the  farm.  But  as  the 
mortgage  was  fourteen  hundred  and  fifty  dollars,  and 
had  lived  so  long,  he  decided  not  to  impoverish 
himself  in  vain.  He  sent  his  mother  a  note  of  filial 

321 


"MOMMA" 

regret,  and  a  hat  which  he  bought  at  cost  price  at  the 
Emporium.  His  fifteen  hundred  was  now  fourteen 
hundred  and  ninety-one  dollars  and  thirty-one  cents. 

Once  a  bookkeeper  always  a  bookkeeper,  Wadhams 
pondered.  Fifteen  hundred  would  not  suffice  to  lift 
him  from  his  estate  for  more  than  a  few  months.  It 
would  dribble  away  in  inconsequential  luxuries,  the 
mere  sweetmeats  of  pleasure  which  have  no  suste 
nance  and  leave  a  sour  taste.  While  he  was  fretting 
over  his  good  luck,  a  new  book  on  Africa  appeared 
at  the  library.  He  got  it.  He  read  the  first  chapter. 
Then  he  slammed  the  volume  shut  with  an  irrever 
ence  that  was  almost  sacrilege  in  such  a  book  wor 
shiper  as  he.  He  leaped  to  his  feet,  emancipated. 
With  one  fierce  gesture  he  flung  off  the  shackles  of 
literature.  He  was  through  with  books.  He  was 
done  with  hand-me-down  adventures.  He  had  more 
than  fourteen  hundred  dollars  in  cash  and  he  was 
going  forth  for  to  get  some  experiences  of  his  own. 
As  for  books,  he  would  write  one  himself.  He  spent 
several  delicious  hours  dreaming  over  a  title  for  it. 
My  Adventures  in  Africa,  by  Horace  Wadhams. 
That  looked  good.  African  Adventures  was  also 
good.  Wadhams  in  Wildest  Africa  was  better  yet. 
He  could  hear  people  asking  for  it  at  the  library, 
where  he  had  asked  for  so  many  other  people's  books : 

"Excuse  me,  Miss,  have  you  got  Wadhams's 
Wildest  Africa?" 

"I'm  sorry,  but  it's  out." 

"Seems  to  me  a  library  like  this  'd  ought  to  have 
more  'n  one  copy  of  such  a  book." 

"More  'n  one?  Goodness  me,  we  have  six;  but 
they're  always  out.  Three  copies  are  at  the  bindery 
now  being  rebound,  after  being  all  wore  to  pieces." 

322 


THE  DAUNTLESS  BOOKKEEPER 

He  would  dedicate  it,  of  course,  to  the  memory  of 
the  distant  relative  who  had  given  him  Africa  and 
immortality.  He  spent  several  delicious  days  writing 
the  dedication.  Two  or  three  of  his  attempts  were 
in  verse,  but  he  found  that  poets  had  to  plod,  so  he 
decided  to  stick  to  prose. 

He  could  see  the  reviews  of  his  book,  especially 
in  the  Owego  papers.  How  the  Owegans  would  talk 
about  him!  People  who  hardly  knew  him  would 
claim  kin.  Probably  they  would  put  a  memorial 
tablet  on  the  boarding  house,  and  his  tall  stool 
would  be  chipped  away  by  souvenir  hunters.  The 
magazines  would  publish  pictures  of  the  sidewalk — 
"his  favorite  stroll." 

The  only  fly  in  the  ointment  of  this  rapture  was 
the  fear  that  he  might  not  live  to  finish  the  book. 
He  might  perish  at  the  hands  of  a  Mbuti  warrior, 
some  treacherous  Aruwimi  chief  might  transfix  him 
from  behind  his  wicker  shield,  the  tusk  of  a  charging 
rhinoceros  might  disembowel  him,  or  he  might  be 
macerated  by  the  flaillike  tail  of  a  crocodile  or  end 
as  a  ragout  in  the  kettle  of  a  Mpongwe  tribal  feast. 

Still,  it  would  be  dying  the  death.  Better  to  die 
than  never  to  have  lived.  Better  to  let  his  bones 
bleach  in  the  jungle  than  to  let  his  heart  fossilize  at 
Owego. 

He  resigned  his  job.  That  was  the  first  great 
draught  on  his  courage,  but  he  believed  in  burning 
his  bridges  behind  him.  He  set  forth  for  New  York 
and  there  was  a  piece  in  the  paper  about  it;  he  was 
called  "our  distinguished  fellow  townsman,  long 
identified  with  the  enterprising  Spiegel  Emporium, 
which  has  long  been  one  of  Owego's  most  flourishing 
institutions,  a  favorite  resort  of  the  ladies  of  our 

323 


"MOMMA" 

fair  city,"  etc.  There  was  a  little  too  much  about 
the  Emporium.  That  was  because  Mr.  Spiegel  ad 
vertised.  Wadhams  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  at 
fleeing  from  such  venality  and  such  grinding  com 
merce  to  the  great  free  wilderness. 

Wadhams  found  New  York  very  trying.  He  had 
to  ask  the  way  so  often  that  he  began  to  wonder  what 
he  would  do  in  Africa,  where  there  were  no  numbered 
lampposts  and  no  policemen. 

He  had  an  evening  to  kill  before  his  steamer  sailed. 
He  went  to  a  roof  garden,  where  an  Arab  magician 
with  three  wives  performed  some  wonderful  tricks. 
Also  there  was  an  American  lady  who  performed  a 
"Salome"  dance  in  an  imitation  of  a  costume,  mostly 
imitation  jewels.  Wadhams  wondered  if  anything 
in  Africa  could  shock  him  after  that. 

At  the  dock  the  next  day  he  had  a  trunk  dumped 
on  his  foot.  He  limped  aboard,  and  a  banging  cabin 
door  put  his  hand  in  a  sling  for  a  week.  Later  his 
stomach  envied  his  hand. 

His  ticket  included  his  food.  That  was  more  than 
Wadhams  could  do.  He  ate  but  little,  nor  loved 
that  little  long. 

When  he  arrived  in  Liverpool  at  the  end  of  a  week 
he  decided  to  go  to  Africa  by  land.  But  that  turned 
out  too  expensive,  and  he  was  forced  to  take  ship. 
At  the  sight  of  the  greasy  waves  he  came  near  giving 
up  Africa.  He  gave  up  everything  else.  But  when 
he  was  nighest  to  despair  he  would  go  to  his  state 
room  and  look  at  his  pith  helmet  and  his  elephant 
gun,  the  field  glass  and  the  camera  he  had  bought  in 
Liverpool.  They  were  the  guaranties  of  hope. 

The  slow  old  ship  went  on  its  scallopy  way  past 
historic  England,  the  Abbey,  and  the  Tower,  and 

324 


THE  DAUNTLESS  BOOKKEEPER 

all  the  sights  dear  to  tourists.  They  were  not  for 
Wadhams.  Nor  did  Paris  with  her  gilded  mirth  lure 
him  from  the  forthright  of  his  purpose.  Rome  should 
not  know  him,  nor  even  Spain.  He  was  for  greater 
wonders  than  any  Alhambra  or  Escorial. 

The  ocean  disappointed  him  sadly.  He  had 
counted  on  assisting  in  at  least  one  storm  at  sea. 
He  had  read  so  much  of  the  mountainous  waves  of 
Fenimore  Cooper,  the  foam  smother  of  Marry  at,  the 
crackling  timbers  of  W.  Clark  Russell;  Morgan 
Robertson's  and  Jack  London's  and  Joseph  Conrad's 
tempests  had  thralled  him.  But  his  billows  were 
never  high  enough  to  give  him  anything  more  than 
a  headache.  He  saw  nothing  but  tame  skies,  drizzly 
rains,  dismal  fogs,  and  waves,  always  waves,  and 
more  waves  that  went  by  in  stupid  droves  like  cattle 
crowded  to  a  slaughterhouse. 

At  length,  when  he  was  but  a  wisp  of  strength,  the 
left  shoulder  of  Africa  loomed  up  along  the  sea.  It 
gave  him  new  hope,  but  it  was  some  days  before  the 
ship  reached  Sierra  Leone. 

Here  the  vessel  paused  for  a  few  hours.  Wadhams 
donned  his  pith  helmet,  slung  his  camera  over  one 
shoulder,  his  field  glass  over  the  other,  and,  taking 
his  elephant  gun  in  hand,  went  ashore,  feeling  like 
Vasco  da  Gama  and  Diego  Cam  rolled  into  one. 

He  set  foot  on  Africa  at  last!  To  his  sea-shaken 
legs  it  seemed  as  if  the  continent  were  about  to  tip 
over  under  his  weight.  But  he  found  no  chance  to 
use  his  elephant  gun.  He  found  ordinary  streets  full 
of  ordinary  people.  He  could  have  wept  at  the 
natives  he  saw.  They  wore  shirts  and  trousers! 
They  looked  and  acted  and  dressed  like  the  negroes 
of  Owego,  only  less  so. 

325 


"MOMMA" 

He  was  glad  when  the' steamer  sailed.  But  the 
farther  towns  were  not  much  better.  Everywhere, 
he  found  simply  the  discomfort  and  crudity  of  Ameri 
can  villages  gone  to  seed,  or  still  in  a  fresh-plank 
condition.  The  foliage  was  tropical,  but  it  did  not 
come  up  to  the  pictures.  The  animals  to  be  seen 
were  the  cows  and  pigs,  the  hens  and  dogs  of  Owego ; 
and  if  there  were  any  local  fauna  they  revealed  noth 
ing  that  the  circuses  had  not  shown  him  since  his 
boyhood. 

He  met  a  few  native  monarchs,  but  they  were 
simply  replicas  of  the  more  shiftless  negroes  of 
Owego.  They  were  a  little  drunker,  a  little  dirtier, 
a  little  nakeder,  a  little  smellier,  that  was  all.  Their 
wives  were  many,  but  were  only  like  unkempt 
washerwomen,  carelessly  clad. 

He  saw  a  few  native  dances.  But  his  trip  to  the 
Midway  at  the  Chicago  Fair  had  given  him  sensa 
tions  that  were  not  surpassed.  He  saw  an  unusual 
amount  of  human  hide  displayed,  but  it  was  so  un 
attractive  that  he  regretted  the  lack  of  drapery. 
To  a  man  of  his  neat  habits  the  evident  neglect  of 
the  Saturday-night  bath  was  enough  to  rob  this  living 
ebon  statuary  of  any  allurement  it  might  have  had. 

He  found  that  a  drunken  sot  is  a  drunken  sot  even 
if  he  happens  to  be  called  King  Palabala.  A  thatched 
roof  was  a  slovenly  and  populous  thing  in  spite  of 
all  the  traditions.  The  headdresses  of  the  natives 
looked  better  in  the  photograph  than  on  the  skull. 
Mr.  Wadhams  believed  in  short  hair  and  frequent 
shampoo. 

But  still,  with  an  undismayed  hope,  he  stalked  ad 
venture,  lugging  the  heavy  gun  that  was  guaranteed 
to  stop  an  elephant  and  double  up  a  leaping  tiger. 

326 


THE  DAUNTLESS  BOOKKEEPER 

Finally  he  reached  the  goal  of  his  dreams,  the 
storied  mouth  of  the  Congo.  His  revered  Stanley 
had  described  the  region  as  "barren,  uninviting,  and 
sparsely  populated."  In  spite  of  themselves,  the 
printed  words  had  fascination.  To  read  that  a  place 
is  "a  barren  and  uninviting  mangrove  swamp"  gave 
it  at  once  a  charm.  But  the  literal  truth,  seen  with 
the  fleshly  eye,  was  appalling. 

In  desperation  he  left  the  towns  and  plunged  into 
the  wilderness,  hoping  against  hope  for  adventure. 
Better  to  be  entombed  in  a  lion  or  a  cannibal  than 
murdered  with  ennui.  His  heart  was  stopped  once 
by  a  terrific  scream  that  curdled  through  one  pri 
meval  fastness.  He  asked  a  grinning  native  if  it  were 
a  maddened  tigress.  "Nope,  him  locomotive,"  was 
the  answer.  He  never  saw  a  tigress  or  even  a  tiger 
loose.  No  cannibals  noticed  him. 

Then  there  was  the  price  of  the  hunting  license. 
If  he  had  seen  a  dozen  lions  he  could  not  have 
afforded  one.  He  did  not  even  meet  a  temptation. 

The  only  elephants  he  saw  were  like  enormously 
idiotic  oxen  overworked  and  disgustingly  meek.  He 
lost  his  way  often  enough,  but  polite  natives  acted 
like  policemen  and  led  him  to  shelter.  He  was  bitten 
by  flies,  gnats,  and  mosquitoes,  but  that  might  have 
happened  in  Owego.  He  got  blisters  on  his  feet  and 
tore  his  trousers,  but  one  native  applied  to  his  sole 
a  salve  made  in  Skaneateles,  and  another  mended 
his  trousers  with  a  sewing  machine.  His  nearest 
approach  to  death  was  when  he  was  butted  by  a 
trolley  car  whizzing  through  the  jungle.  And  yet  he 
labored  on,  assured  that  some  great  event  lurked 
behind  the  next  cocoa  palm  or  lay  in  wait  just  across 
the  nearest  yam  farm. 

327 


"MOMMA" 

From  childhood  he  had  been  giving  his  pennies  to 
the  missionary  funds.  And  now  he  saw  what  crops 
those  copper  showers  were  raising.  He  felt  like  ask 
ing  for  his  money  back  with  interest.  The  mission 
aries  themselves  were  doleful.  They  baptized  nu 
merous  black  bodies,  but  the  souls  stayed  chocolate. 
Civilization  had  brought  all  its  attendants.  Natives 
learned  to  speak  English  in  order  to  lie  in  another 
language.  They  were  schooled  in  new  vices,  new 
cheats,  new  gambles,  new  crimes.  There  were 
churches,  but  they  were  like  the  African  Baptist  or 
the  A.  M.  E.  churches  of  Owego;  and  there  were 
saloons  like  Owego  saloons. 

Wadhams  made  so  bold  as  to  invade  the  dirty 
hut  of  one  shiny  onyx  monarch  of  Gaboon,  known 
as  King  Jim  Smith  Bobawa.  Wadhams  counseled 
this  ace  of  spades  that  rum  was  ruining  his  people. 

The  boozy  king  bleared  at  him  and  answered : 

"Thasso — 'stoo  bad — have  some  wit'  me." 

Wadhams  evaded  the  rum,  but  he  had  to  sit 
through  a  concert.  Even  this  was  not  of  barbaric 
music,  for  the  delighted  natives  had  welcomed  the 
labor-saving  device  of  the  phonograph.  And  poor 
Wadhams  must  squat  on  a  dusty  mat  and  listen  to 
raucous  records  of  old  times,  stale  even  in  Owego, 
and  not  improved  by  rough  usage.  He  had  come  to 
Africa  to  hear  again  "The  Letter  that  He  Longed  for 
Never  Came,"  "In  the  Baggage  Car  Ahead,"  and 
"I  Hear  You  Calling  Me!" 

He  heard  Owego  calling  him.  There  was  that 
odious  ocean  to  do  over  again,  but  on  the  other  side 
of  it  was  home. 

Never  was  a  man  more  disappointed  than  Horace 
Wadhams.  His  fifteen  hundred  dollars  was  going, 

328 


THE  DAUNTLESS  BOOKKEEPER 

going,  almost  gone.  His  Africa — his  fabled  Africa — 
had  yielded  him  nothing  but  novel  stenches,  bad 
beds,  bad  meals,  and  boredom.  Never  an  adventure, 
never  a  chapter  for  his  book. 

He  would  return  to  the  Emporium  and  ask  Mr. 
Spiegel  for  his  job  again.  At  least  he  could  have  the 
uncertainty  of  hunting  down  his  wild  and  elusive 
trial  balance.  Perhaps  the  old  charm  of  adventure 
would  come  back  to  him  through  the  inverted  tele 
scope  of  the  printed  page. 

Wadhams  began  to  believe  that  literature  is  to 
many  people  what  stained  glass  is  to  little  churches; 
it  takes  what  the  average  eye  can  see  only  as  common 
everyday  yellow  sunshine,  and  weaves  it  into  glory 
and  magic  and  rainbow  resplendence.  Charles  Lamb 
was  a  bookkeeper,  and  he  saw  everything  prismati- 
cally.  It  was  not  because  Wadhams  was  a  book 
keeper  that  he  could  not  see  Africa  artistically.  It 
was  because  he  was  Wadhams  and  he  had  read  too 
much. 

It  was  a  doleful  and  empty  Wadhams  who  leaned 
over  the  rail  of  the  steamer  making  once  more  for 
the  right  side  of  the  equator.  He  threw  overboard 
his  pith  helmet  and  his  white  umbrella.  He  was 
tempted  to  jettison  also  his  elephant  gun,  but  he 
decided  that  it  would  look  well  hung  across  a  couple 
of  nails  on  his  wall  at  Mrs.  Magoffin's.  All  else  he 
was  taking  home  was  a  few  snapshots.  The  most 
nearly  interesting  ones  had  come  out  light-struck  or 
underexposed;  the  remnant  were  of  such  nature 
that  they  would  hardly  do  to  show  in  Owego;  they 
would  prove  shocking  without  proving  interesting. 
He  had  not  even  the  material  for  his  dreamed-of 
stereopticon  lecture  at  the  Sunday-school. 
22  329 


"MOMMA" 

When  the  endless  voyage  was  ended  and  the 
steamer  sighted  Sandy  Hook,  Wadhams  believed  that 
there  was  no  such  thing  as  adventure  outside  the 
libraries.  How  little  we  know  where  or  when  our 
adventures  await  us  or  in  what  clusters  they  may 
come! 

The  view  of  the  Manhattan  sky  line,  the  Gargan 
tuan  buildings  mountained  together  at  the  foot  of 
the  metropolis,  lifted  him  from  his  depression  like  a 
sudden  gift  of  wings.  The  puffing  tugs  and  the  wad 
dling  ferryboats  gave  life  a  lilt.  The  anchored 
freighters  rusting  for  paint  and  sitting  high  on  their 
red  keels  while  they  waited  for  cargoes,  looked  to 
be  the  very  vessels  of  romance.  Wadhams  forgot 
that  he  had  gone  farther  than  they  and  had  fetched 
home  no  such  merchandise. 

The  slow  warping  into  the  wharf  on  the  Jersey 
shore  was  a  pageant  to  him.  The  hustling  stevedores 
were  beautiful  when  he  thought  of  the  pitiful  black 
amoors  swarming  about  the  African  coasts.  Every 
thing  American  was  more  beautiful  than  the  charms 
of  any  other  continent.  His  money  was  nearly  gone, 
however,  and  he  found  New  York  as  expensive  as  it 
was  exhilarating.  He  posted  a  letter  to  Mr.  Spiegel 
and  asked  him  to  send  his  forgiveness  to  Oscawana, 
care  of  Mrs.  A.  J.  Wadhams,  R.  F.  D.  31.  Then  he 
took  train  to  his  ancestral  estates,  consisting  of  sev 
eral  acres  and  a  mortgage.  He  decided  to  visit  his 
mother  for  a  few  days  at  Oscawana,  while  he  waited 
to  see  if  Mr.  Spiegel  would  re-receive  the  husk-sick 
prodigal,  with  or  without  fatted  calf. 

Even  Oscawana  had  changed  a  good  deal  since  he 
had  left  it,  but  there  was  a  reminder  of  boyhood  days 
in  the  billboards  and  dead  walls,  which  were  alive 

330 


THE  DAUNTLESS  BOOKKEEPER 

with  the  circus  posters  of  one  of  the  numerous 
greatest  shows  on  earth.  One  huge  picture  repre 
sented  the  wilds  of  Africa.  It  was  a  conglomeration 
of  ferocious  animals:  a  lion  leaping  into  the  gaping 
jaws  of  a  crocodile;  a  cannibal  in  the  coils  of  a  boa 
constrictor;  a  tiger  making  ribbons  of  a  goring  rhi 
noceros  ;  an  elephant  with  a  leopard  in  his  trunk  while 
a  hippopotamus  crunched  his  hind  leg;  a  Zulu  in 
death  wrestle  with  a  gorilla — all  in  one  scene. 

Wadhams  smiled — the  smile  of  one  who  has  been 
there. 

The  hack  driver  explained  that  a  circus  was  in 
the  town  the  day  before  and  had  driven  away  early 
that  morning.  It  had  a  grand  menagerie,  he  ex 
plained.  He  asked  what  kind  of  a  weapon  Wadhams 
had  in  the  case,  and  Wadhams  showed  him  the  long 
express  rifle  that  had  neither  suffered  nor  done  any 
harm,  and  the  unbroken  box  of  cartridges  guaran 
teed  to  plow  a  widening  furrow  through  a  whale. 

Peaceful  thoughts  wooed  Wadhams  as  he  recog 
nized  the  haunts  of  his  barefoot  boyhood,  the  trees 
from  which  he  had  fallen,  the  swimming  hole  in 
which  he  had  come  so  near  drowning,  even  the  school- 
house  to  which  he  had  expected  to  return  as  Presi 
dent  of  the  United  States.  He  sighed  to  think  that 
he  was  returning  only  as  a  jobless  bookkeeper  in 
seedy  clothes.  But  his  mother — bless  her  heart! — 
she  would  be  glad  to  see  him  any  way  he  came. 

He  wondered  where  and  how  he  would  find  her. 

As  they  topped  the  last  hill,  he  saw  her — in  the 
last  place  he  could  have  dreamed. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  roof  of  the  farmhouse;  in 
the  farmyard  below  stood  a  lion,  a  tiger,  two  ele 
phants,  and  a  cougar. 


"MOMMA" 

Wadhams  and  the  hackman  looked  at  each  other. 
The  horses  looked  at  each  other,  sniffed  the  foreign 
odors  from  afar,  and  whirled  so  quickly  that  they 
spilled  Wadhams  and  his  armament  into  the  road. 
They  disappeared  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  the  hackman 
assisting  their  speed  with  willing  whip.  As  Wad- 
hams  sprawled  on  the  ground  he  fully  expected  to 
wake  and  find  himself  in  bed  or  just  out  of  it.  The 
old  homestead  mixed  with  the  circus  lithograph  come 
to  life  had  no  claim  on  reality.  Then  he  noted  that 
the  lion  was  pacing  majestically  and  roaring  in  huge 
grunts,  while  the  tiger  was  making  ineffectual  at 
tempts  to  leap  to  the  roof,  where  his  mother  sat 
huddled.  Her  shrieks  were  no  dream. 

Wadhams  was  much  too  scared  to  run  away. 
Besides,  that  was  his  mother  there — the  only  mother 
he  ever  had.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  unlimber 
and  get  into  action.  He  had  lugged  that  elephant 
gun  all  over  Africa.  Now  was  its  chance  to  prove 
itself. 

He  loaded  it  with  hands  composed  of  ten  thumbs, 
and  tried  to  remember  all  the  rules  he  had  ever  read 
about  the  art  of  accurate  aim.  Then  he  crept  down 
the  hill  and  up  to  the  fence,  and  drew  bead  on  the 
bounding  tiger.  He  pulled  the  trigger  and  went 
over  backward.  So  did  the  lion. 

The  tiger  continued  to  spring  in  the  air.  Wad- 
hams  was  puzzled.  Then  he  calculated  hastily  that 
if,  by  aiming  at  a  tiger,  he  had  killed  a  lion,  the  way 
to  kill  a  tiger  was  to  aim  at  a  cougar. 

]It  did  not  work.  He  tried  it  twice  in  vain,  his 
second  bullet  taking  a  brick  from  the  chimney  over 
his  mother's  head.  He  reloaded  and  fired  again  and 
again.  The  tiger  leaped  and  snarled,  oblivious  of 

332 


THE  DAUNTLESS  BOOKKEEPER 

the  bullets,  while  Wadhams  crept  nearer  and  nearer, 
firing  always. 

The  eighth  shot  at  the  tiger  nipped  the  cougar, 
and  he  sped  for  the  horizon  on  three  legs.  The  tiger 
grew  wearier  and  hungrier,  leaped  and  leaped  like  a 
dying  flame.  He  did  not  heed  the  approach  of  the 
desperate  Wadhams,  until  finally,  blind  with  frenzy 
and  realizing  that  he  had  only  one  bullet  left,  he  ran 
straight  for  the  striped  fury  and,  jamming  the 
muzzle  of  the  gun  into  the  big  cat's  very  ribs,  blazed 
away.  The  result  was  a  smell  of  singed  fur  and  a 
dead  tiger  with  a  porthole  through  him. 

Now  Wadhams  and  his  elephant  gun  were  con 
fronted  by  an  angry  elephant — by  two  angry  ele 
phants,  in  fact.  But  there  were  no  more  of  those 
famous  mushroom  bullets.  Wadhams  was  too  crazed 
with  excitement  to  know  what  he  was  doing,  but  a 
pale-faced  witness  peeking  through  a  knothole  in  the 
woodshed  saw  that,  after  casting  about  vainly  for 
an  elephant  hook,  Wadhams  seized  a  garden  rake 
and  dug  it  into  the  nearer  elephant's  jaw,  after  the 
manner  of  a  mahout.  The  amazed  mammoth  shiv 
ered  with  respect  and  suffered  himself  to  be  led  into 
the  barn,  whither  he  was  dutifully  followed  by  the 
other  elephant. 

Wadhams  was  then  seen  to  issue  from  the  stable, 
bolt  the  door  calmly,  and  calmly  carry  a  ladder  to 
the  side  of  the  house.  He  assisted  his  mother  to 
the  ground  with  the  grace  of  a  Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 

She  started  to  faint,  but  her  son,  having  finished 
his  work,  fainted  first.  The  man  in  the  woodshed 
came  forth,  and  simultaneously,  from  behind  a  dozen 
rail  fences,  came  various  circus  people  who  had  re 
mained  in  discreet  retirement,  less  afraid  of  the  ani- 

333 


"MOMMA" 

mals  than  of  the  terrible  figure  of  Wadhams  and  the 
blazing  elephant  gun  with  which  he  had  eventually 
destroyed  several  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  no 
longer  live  stock. 

The  leader  of  the  circus  gang  demanded  damages 
for  his  dead ;  but  the  pale-faced  man  from  the  wood 
shed  turned  out  to  be  a  business  man  too — a  Mr. 
Joel  Crane,  the  mortgagee  of  the  farm,  in  fact.  He 
had  called  on  Mrs.  Wadhams  to  demand  payment 
on  penalty  of  foreclosure,  when  the  homestead  was 
invaded  by  a  rabble  of  mad  animals  from  foreign 
parts.  Mr.  Crane  had  swiftly  negotiated  the  wood 
pile,  while  old  Mrs.  Wadhams,  whose  motto  was 
rheumatism,  had  scaled  the  roof  with  an  agility  that 
won  the  envy  of  a  distant  trapeze  artist. 

It  transpired  eventually,  after  much  palaver,  that 
a  discharged  tent-pegger  had  taken  a  sublime  and 
drunken  revenge  on  the  proprietor  of  the  circus  by 
opening  the  cages  of  several  of  the  animals  during 
a  pause  to  rest  the  horses.  The  lion,  the  tiger,  and 
the  cougar  had  stampeded  the  elephants,  and  all 
had  made  for  the  nearest  poultry  farm,  which  chanced 
to  be  that  of  Mrs.  Wadhams. 

Mr.  Crane  finally  got  rid  of  the  circus  gang  by 
offering  to  sell  them  the  two  elephants  in  the  stable 
in  return  for  a  receipt  in  full  for  the  useless  felines 
littering  the  farmyard  and  cash  enough  to  pay  off 
the  mortgage.  This  was  agreed  upon  after  much 
palaver. 

When  the  circus  men  departed  over  the  hills  with 
the  two  elephants  meekly  lumbering  after,  Mr.  Crane 
and  Mrs.  Wadhams  carried  the  bookkeeper  within 
and  revived  him. 

The  embarrassment  of  adventures  had  been  too 
334 


THE  DAUNTLESS  BOOKKEEPER 

much  for  him  after  the  tedium  of  his  voyage  to 
Africa.  He  went  to  bed  for  six  weeks  with  a  well- 
earned  case  of  nervous  prostration  and  ague — at 
least  the  doctor  called  it  ague,  but  Wadhams  knew 
that  it  was  belated  terror  for  his  big  game  hunt.  He 
was  just  catching  up  with  his  emotions,  and  he 
nearly  shook  the  bed  apart. 

The  neighbors  had  ceased  to  heroize  him  long 
before  he  was  a  well  man.  During  his  convalescence 
he  received  from  the  owner  of  the  circus  a  letter 
praising  his  pluck  and  offering  him  a  job  as  a  lion 
tamer.  But  Wadhams  declined  with  thanks.  He 
had  had  enough  of  real  life.  Mr.  Spiegel  was  kind 
enough  to  give  him  back  his  old  job.  He  returned 
to  the  keeping  of  his  own  books  and  the  reading  of 
other  men's. 

And  now  at  least  once  a  month,  when  trial-balanc 
ing  time  comes,  you  may  find  him  at  the  Owego 
Emporium  late  at  night. 

Once  more  under  the  green  eyeshade — under  the 
heavy  eyelids  under  the  thick  eyeglasses  under  the 
green  eyeshade  under  the  green  drop-light — the  book 
keeper's  eyeballs  shuttle  to  and  fro  as  he  adds  and 
re-adds  and  re-re-adds  cords  of  columns. 


XIII 
YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 


MISS  CLARASTELLA  POSEY,  one  of  the  deftest 
sewing  women  in  Carthage,  sat  buried  waist- 
deep  in  billows  of  white  satin.  She  was  stitching  a 
trousseau  together — another  and  a  younger  woman's 
trousseau — and  her  heart  was  so  needled  with  envy 
that  she  turned  her  head  aside  lest  her  tears  fall  on 
the  woven  cream  and  curdle  it. 

Not  but  what  she  could  have  been  married  if  she 
had  a  mind  to.  She  could  have  been  married  at  the 
time  when  this  bride-to-be,  this  Coralie  Bevans,  was 
a  little  snip  in  kilts.  Miss  Posey  had  been  sewing 
for  the  Bevanses  then,  making  Coralie's  first  shoe- 
top  school  dresses.  On  one  of  the  evenings  of  that 
period,  Horace  Clum,  calling  on  Miss  Posey,  had 
mastered  his  Adam's  apple  long  enough  to  explode 
a  long-prepared  proposal  in  an  inarticulate  jumble. 
"Say,  Clarastellar,  whad  joo  say  'f  I's  t'  say,  'Le's 
git  married,' huh?  Whad  joo  say?" 

The  words  were  homely,  but  the  thought  was 
divine,  and  Clarastella  always  remembered  how  she 
had  answered  with  demure  deliberation — she  had  to 
speak  slowly  to  keep  her  heart  from  popping  out  of 
her  lips. 

"Why,  I  guess  I'd  sa-ay,  'Aw— all  ri-ght,  Hod.'" 

Her  little  whalebone  ribs  creaked  again  with 
336 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

memory  of  how  strong  he  was.  He  had  big  arms 
and  he  could  throw  a  mule  and  he  forgot  that  he 
was  not  tightening  a  cinch  round  a  saddle  horse. 

He  hurt  her  till  she  cried,  and  then  he  was  ashamed 
and  afraid  till  he  almost  cried,  too.  She  smiled  at 
the  memory  of  his  remorse,  smiled  so  widely  that 
her  tears  slid  down  into  the  corners  of  her  mouth 
and  she  tasted  them. 

She  remembered  what  her  mother  had  said  when 
she  told  her: 

"Well,  it's  about  time  Hod  Clum  was  toein'  the 
mark.  That  rockin'  chair  he  sites  in  has  wore  a  rut 
in  the  porch  floor." 

Clarastella  remembered  these  things  with  a  brack 
ish  smile  when  she  made  Coralie  Bevans's  first  wed 
ding  gown. 

Five  years  later  she  remembered  them  again,  for 
five  years  later  she  was  waist-deep  in  Coralie 's 
second  wedding  gown. 

Meanwhile  she  had  sewed  on  the  mourning  clothes 
that  Coralie  wore  for  her  first  husband.  She  had 
stitched  the  tremendous  cr£pe  veil  to  the  profoundly 
black  hat. 

Clarastella,  working  on  the  second  wedding  gown, 
did  not  turn  her  head  aside  to  save  the  fabric  from 
her  tears.  There  were  no  tears  to  drip  from  the  dry 
eaves  of  her  weary  eyes.  Only  the  smile  was  there. 
She  had  learned  to  face  life  with  a  dry  smile. 

A  kind  of  tremor,  half  giggle  and  half  shiver, 
agitated  her  as  she  mused : 

"Coralie  had  two  husbands  while  I've  been 
getting  one,  and  I  haven't  got  him.  Funny  thing, 
life,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it !  Awful  funny  the 
way  folks'  lives  turn  out!" 

337 


"MOMMA" 

She  wondered  if  she  would  still  be  an  old  maid 
when  the  time  came  to  make  up  Coralie's  final  nup 
tial  robe.  It  certainly  seemed  so,  for  a  few  years 
later  there  she  was  again  in  Coralie's  house,  making 
new  dresses  for  Coralie's  seven-year-old  daughter  by 
her  first  husband. 

Also  she  was  letting  out  some  of  Coralie's  own 
clothes,  for  Coralie  was  plumper  now,  more  beauti 
ful  than  ever,  perhaps,  plump  and  glowing,  at  that 
high  crisis  of  beauty  when  the  flower  has  reached 
the  fruit  and  the  fruit  is  ripe. 

By  this  time  old  Miss  Posey  was  so  familiar  a 
presence  in  Coralie's  homes  that  Coralie  treated  her 
like  a  veteran  chair  or  a  section  of  wall  paper.  The 
proof  of  that  came  out  one  day  when  Clarastella 
slipped  downstairs  to  ask  Coralie  if  she  wanted  the 
buttonholes  worked  through,  or  did  she  want  hooks 
an'  eyes  on,  or  maybe  would  she  use  patent  snappers  ? 
She  hunted  all  over  downstairs  for  Coralie  and 
finally  peeked  into  the  parlor  and  said : 

"Coralie,  do  you  want  I  should —  Oh,  excuse 
me.  I  didn't  know  you  had  comp'ny." 

Clarastella's  eyesight  was  getting  a  little  slow. 
She  had  to  stare  at  objects  more  than  sewing- 
length  away  and  study  them  a  little  really  to  see 
them. 

Now  she  had  a  blurred  impression  that  Coralie 
was  breaking  out  of  the  arms  of  a  man.  Instinctively 
Clarastella  had  gasped  for  pardon  and  retreated  to 
the  foot  of  the  stairs.  But  as  she  paused  to  gather 
breath  for  the  climb  she  began  to  see  that  the  man 
embracing  Coralie  was  not  her  husband,  but  Bruce 
Imrie. 

This  hateful  fact  had  to  be  thought  as  slowly  as 
338 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

it  had  been  seen.  While  she  stood  pondering  it  she 
heard  Bruce  Imrie's  voice  saying : 

4 'Great  Scott!    What  '11  she  think?" 

She  heard  Coralie  laugh  and  say : 

"Oh,  it's  only  old  Miss  Posey.  She  doesn't 
think.  She  can't  see  farther  than  the  end  of 
her  needle." 

Clarastella  started  up  the  stairs.  Coralie's  remark 
was  a  heavy  burden,  like  a  trunk  on  her  old  spine. 
And,  besides,  she  was  shaky  in  the  limbs — Miss 
Posey  did  not  have  legs — from  the  horror  of  what 
she  had  witnessed. 

ii 

Clarastella  was  bewildered  almost  more  than  she 
was  shocked  by  Coralie's  astounding  lightness.  As 
a  girl  Coralie  had  been  loved  by  many  of  the  young 
fellows,  but  principally  besieged  by  Bruce  Imrie  and 
Walt  Braisted.  They  had  fought  for  her,  and  she 
had  pitted  them  against  each  other  shamelessly. 
Then  suddenly  she  up  and  married  Walt  Braisted. 

Clarastella  had  sewed  a  good  deal  for  Mrs. 
Braisted,  made  the  first  and  second  babies'  clothes, 
and  turned  Walt's  cuffs  and  made  his  nightgowns, 
and  even  mended  his  socks  for  the  negligent  Coralie. 
She  had  known  how  stormily  they  lived;  he  drank 
and  she  flirted.  They  quarreled  recklessly,  and 
made  up,  and  loved  again  with  outrageous  senti 
mentality,  whether  Miss  Posey  were  within  earshot 
or  eyeshot  or  not. 

Then  Walt  died  and  Coralie  mourned  him  fiercely. 
She  could  not  load  the  cre'pe  on  thick  enough,  and 
she  cried  desperately.  But  by  and  by  she  was  com 
plaining  that  crdpe  was  stifling,  and  finally  that  it 

339 


"MOMMA" 

was  depressing!  Miss  Posey  had  supposed  that 
that  was  what  folks  wore  it  for. 

But  Coralie  looked  grand  in  black,  a  lily  in  an 
onyx  vase,  and  Bruce  Imrie  began  to  flutter  round 
her  again.  He  brought  candy  for  the  children  and 
played  with  them  till  they  grew  to  love  him  and  to 
call  him  Uncle  Bruce.  Mrs.  Posey  wondered  what 
Walt  Braisted  was  thinking  of  that — wherever  he 
was — if  he  was  anywhere.  But  Bruce  Imrie  played 
better  with  children  and  widows  than  he  worked 
among  men;  he  never  had  any  money  ahead  and 
owed  everybody  he  could. 

Meanwhile  Coralie,  in  her  fetching  black,  fetched 
a  rival,  old  Alex — pronounced  Ellick — Crofoot,  who 
owned  the  flour  mill  and  real  estate  and  mortgages 
till  you  couldn't  rest.  Bruce  Imrie  was  furious  with 
jealousy  and  threatened  to  wring  the  old  miser's 
neck;  but  the  first  thing  anybody  knew,  Coralie 
confessed  that  she  was  going  to  marry  Mr.  Crofoot. 
And  she  did.  Bruce  Imrie  took  on  terrible,  and 
demonstrated  openly  what  liquor  can  do  to  a  man 
once  he  devotes  himself  to  it. 

Folks  made  a  lot  of  fun  of  the  Crofoots.  Hod 
Clum  called  them  the  worst-matched  team  ever  put 
in  double  harness.  But  he  said  that  old  Alex,  as 
usual,  got  the  best  of  the  swap,  for  she  made  his 
third  wife,  and  he  was  only  her  second  husband. 

Clarastella  moved  over  into  the  big  Crofoot  house 
soon  after  Coralie  did.  Coralie  had  been  looking 
to  buy  her  clothes  in  Chicago  and  St.  Louis  now  that 
she  was  rich,  but  Alex  did  not  propose  that  she  should 
squander  his  savings.  He  was  as  close  as  a  steel 
trap,  and  Coralie  had  to  call  Miss  Posey  in  again. 
The  old  skinflint  objected  even  to  her.  He  resented 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

every  stitch  that  Miss  Posey  made  for  Coralie  or 
for  the  two  little  Braisted  children.  He  was  sharp 
in  his  speech  with  Miss  Posey,  and  Miss  Posey  dis 
liked  him  as  heartily  as  she  permitted  herself  to 
dislike  anybody.  In  fact,  she  disliked  him  better 
than  anybody  else  in  town. 

She  could  hardly  blame  Coralie  for  not  loving  the 
old  reprobate.  But  that  was  far  from  saying  that 
she  approved  of  Coralie's  allowing  Bruce  Imrie  to 
begin  coming  to  see  her  again,  and  in  the  daytime 
when  Alex  was  at  his  mill.  And  now  the  climax 
had  been  reached;  Coralie  was  caught  in  Bruce 
Imrie's  arms.  It  was  inevitable,  yet  almost  un 
believable. 

Clarastella  was  a  normal  purveyor  of  gossip.  It 
was  part  of  a  sewing  woman's  prestige  and  part  of 
her  function  to  keep  up  a  healthful  circulation  of 
family  secrets.  Clarastella  had  extraordinary  means 
for  discovering  them,  and  in  the  long  hours  of  work 
her  tongue  would  naturally  clack  a  little. 

But  there  were  some  secrets  that  were  too  wicked 
for  her  to  publish,  secrets  that  soiled  the  brain  that 
harbored  them,  secrets  that  nice  folks  could  not  lay 
tongue  to.  Clarastella  would  never  have  breathed 
the  Crofoot  scandal  to  a  soul  except  that  she  had  to 
tell  her  mother  about  it  when  she  got  home,  espe 
cially  as  she  wanted  advice.  She  wanted  to  know 
if  she  ought  to  continue  sewing  in  a  house  where 
such  goings-on  were  going  on.  Old  Mrs.  Posey 
treated  Clarastella  as  if  she  were  still  a  foolish  and 
reckless  child.  Her  own  curiosity  had  been  fed,  and 
she  had  a  wealth  of  town  scandals — the  only  wealth 
some  people  have.  She  answered  Clarastella  with 
grimness. 


"MOMMA" 

"I  guess  you're  old  enough  to  mind  your  own  busi 
ness.  It's  not  like  as  if  Bruce  Imrie  was  trying  to 
make  up  to  you.  Coralie  Crofoot  may  be  bad,  but 
her  money's  as  good  as  the  next  one's;  and  her  chil 
dren  got  to  have  duds  same  as  everybody's  children, 
and  so  has  she.  Wicked  as  she  is,  it  would  be  wick 
eder  to  let  her  go  nekked.  We  need  the  money  and 
they  need  the  clo'es." 

So  Clarastella  went  back  to  the  house  of  intrigue 
as  timorously  as  if  it  were  full  of  ghosts.  Coralie, 
believing  that  Clarastella  had  noticed  nothing, 
ignored  the  incident,  and  it  was  more  comfortable 
for  Clarastella  to  act  as  if  it  had  never  happened. 
But  she  could  not  help  pondering  the  contrast  with 
her  own  lot. 

Coralie  had  had  two  husbands  and  two  children 
and  a  lover,  while  Clarastella  was  still  engaged  to 
Hod  Clum.  Hod  still  came  to  see  her.  She  was  the 
only  woman  he  ever  called  on.  He  was  the  only 
man  that  ever  called  on  her,  the  only  one  she  ever 
allowed  to  come  round.  Not  that  anybody  else  ever 
tried  to  storm  her  front  porch,  but  if  they  had  have 
she  wouldn't  have. 

in 

The  reason  Hod  had  never  married  Clarastella 
was  simple  enough.  The  evening  after  the  ancient 
event  of  his  proposal  he  had  called  on  her  again. 
When  he  came  through  the  gate  he  let  it  slam  shut 
after  him.  That  showed  Clarastella,  waiting  on  the 
porch,  that  Hod  was  not  himself.  He  stomped  up 
the  steps  as  if  he  were  trying  to  drive  them  into  the 
ground.  His  long  face  seemed  to  be  a  foot  longer. 
Clarastella  waited  under  the  shelter  of  the  moon- 

342 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

flower  for  him  to  speak,  and  he  said,  without  stop 
ping  to  kiss  her: 

' '  You  r'member  my  askin'  you  last  night  to  marry 
me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Clarastella. 

' '  Well,  I  got  to  take  it  back.     I  can't  get  married. ' ' 

"All  right,  Hod,  if  you  don't  want  to,"  she  sighed. 

"But  I  do  want  to — more  'n  anything  else  on  this 
earth,  but  I  can't." 

"Why  can't  you,  Hod?" 

"Maw  won't  let  me." 

Clarastella  had  laughed  right  out  in  his  face,  to 
think  of  a  big  lummox  like  what  he  was  saying  such 
a  thing,  and  him  six  foot  high  in  his  stockin'  feet, 
and  his  mother  a  mite  of  a  thing,  and  sickly  at  that. 

Hod  did  not  smile  at  Clarastella's  raillery.  He 
simply  said,  in  a  tone  of  gigantic  agony: 

"I  can't,  Clarastella,  that's  all.  I  got  no  right  to! 
She's  m'  mother,  and  she's  been  a  good  mother  to 
me,  and  she's  had  a  hard  life,  and  I  got  no  right  to 
go  against  her  wishes." 

Clarastella,  in  the  sudden  ruins  of  her  palace,  cried 
out  before  she  could  think: 

"Nobody's  asking  you,  Hod,  to  go  against  your 
mother.  All  I  ask  is,  why  is  your  mother  goin' 
against  me?" 

"Oh,  no  reason  a-tall,  no  reason  a-tall,  Clarastella. 
She  thinks  you're  a  good  woman  and  all  that,  but — 
well — I  guess  she's  kind  of  jealous.  She  was  that 
way  with  paw.  He  was  away  so  much  of  the  time 
on  the  livery  business — it  keeps  a  man  goin'  all  hours 
— and  then  he  got  killed  in  that  runaway.  She's 
had  a  hard  life,  like  I  said,  and  I'm  all  she's  got. 
She  don't  seem  to  want  to  lose  me." 

343 


"MOMMA" 

He  was  scarlet  with  shame  for  such  boastfulness, 
and  Clarastella  was  pale  with  the  shame  of  seeming 
to  plead  her  own  cause.  Still,  she  had  to  put  herself 
right  enough  to  say : 

"I  wasn't  allowin'  to  take  you  away  from  her, 
Hod." 

' '  I  know  you  wa'n't,  Clarastella,  and  I  told  maw  so. ' ' 

"Wha'dshesay?" 

"She  just  began  to  cry.  She  kep'  sayin'  that 
nobody  cared  anything  for  her  since  paw  was  took. 
She  said  she  was  useless  and  in  the  way,  and  she 
wished  she  was  dead.  It's  a  tur'ble  thing  to  see  an 
old  woman  cry  like  a  little  girl's  broke  her  doll,  and 
I  said,  just  to  comfort  her  and  git  her  quieted  down, 
I  says:  'Don't  you  worry,  maw,  I'll  never  leave 
you,'  I  says.  'I  promise  you  I  won't  get  married 
long  as  you  live,'  says  I." 

Clarastella  could  hardly  imagine  a  woman  who 
would  not  refuse  such  a  sacrifice,  but  she  mumbled: 

"What  she  say  to  that?" 

"She  just  begun  to  laugh  and  take  on,  and  say  I 
was  a  good  boy  and  always  was,  and  I'd  always  took 
care  of  her  and  I  always  would,  and  nobody  could 
come  between  us.  I  never  would  have  thought  it, 
but  she's  kind  of  old,  you  know,  and  poorly  in  health, 
and  she  'ain't  had  much  fun.  She's  wore  black  for 
paw  now  for  twenty  years.  She's  awful  hard  to 
change,  once  she  gets  her  mind  set  on  anything." 

Clarastella  knew  that  small-town  soul  and  the 
sublime  obstinacies  it  was  capable  of.  She  was  not 
of  the  sort  that  butts  its  head  into  a  stone  wall  and 
blames  the  wall  for  being  stone  and  for  being  there. 
She  felt  sorrier  for  Hod  than  for  herself,  for  he  was 
groaning : 

344 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

"I'm  just  nearly  dyin'  to  marry  you,  Clarastella, 
but  you  see  how  it  is.  I  hadn't  ought  to — so  I 
can't!" 

He  was  like  that,  Hod  was.  "I  hadn't  ought  to," 
and  "I  can't"  were  all  one  and  the  same  to  him. 

Clarastella  had  recognized  the  granite  in  his  virtue. 
He  was  as  stubborn  in  a  decision  as  his  mother. 
She  was  a  Bodine  and  the  Bodines  were  that-a-way. 

She  laid  down  her  dreams  of  marriage  as  she 
would  lay  down  a  bright  fabric  she  had  fancied  and 
picked  up  and  priced  in  the  dry-goods  store,  and  found 
too  costly  for  her  purse.  She  said : 

"I  understand,  Hod.  Don't  think  anything  more 
about  it." 

But  when  she  had  sent  him  home  she  had  to  run 
to  her  mother.  Like  a  little,  disappointed  girl  again, 
she  had  to  run  and  fall  down  at  her  mother's  knee 
and  bury  her  face  in  that  old  lap,  and  cry. 

She  had  not  cried  so  honestly  since  she  was  a  little 
girl  and  a  wagon  had  run  over  the  mud  pies  she  was 
baking  for  her  mother.  It  was  an  immense  relief  to 
have  what  is  called  "a  good  cry."  It  washed  out 
her  sultry  heart  as  a  thunderstorm  and  a  torrent  of 
rain  replenish  a  dusty,  sweltering  air.  It  gave  her 
courage  to  face  another  drought.  Perhaps  when  her 
strength  of  endurance  was  spent  it  would  rain  again 
in  her  parched  soul. 

She  gave  Hod  up,  but  he  did  not  give  her  up.  He 
tried  to  stay  away  for  her  sake,  but  the  next  Wednes 
day  evening  he  moped  past  her  yard  two  or  three 
times.  She  called  out  to  ask  him  why  he  didn't 
come  in. 

He  said  he  had  taken  his  mother  to  prayer  meeting 
and  he  was  waiting  for  her.  He  didn't  feel  like  going 
23  345 


"MOMMA" 

in  himself.  Then  he  began  to  call  on  Clarastella 
every  Wednesday  night  till  they  changed  the  prayer 
meeting  over  to  Thursday,  as  they  had  in  some  of 
the  cities.  It  was  a  sacrilegious  innovation  to  many, 
especially  to  old  Alex  Crofoot,  who  raged : 

"They  'ain't  changed  Sabbath-evening  service 
over  to  Monday  yit,  but  they're  just  as  liable  to  as 
not,  with  their  newfangled,  heathenish  notions." 

Hod  called  thereafter  on  Thursday  evenings;  also 
on  Sunday  evenings.  He  took  his  mother  to  church 
and  left  her  there,  and  sat  on  Clarastella's  porch 
during  the  summer,  or  in  the  settin'  room  when  the 
evenings  drew  on  cold.  Just  before  the  meeting 
would  be  letting  out  he  would  look  at  his  big  watch, 
snap  the  lid  shut  with  the  sound  of  a  cap  pistol,  and 
hoist  himself  to  his  feet,  saying: 

"Well,  I  guess  I  got  to  mosey  along." 

His  mother  had  tried  to  persuade  him  to  go  to 
church  with  her,  but  he  drew  the  line  there.  He 
was  known  in  town  as  a  stubborn  and  godless  man. 
Of  course,  being  a  livery-stable  keeper,  he  had  little 
use  for  sacred  words  except  round  the  horses  and 
mules.  He  respected  other  folks's  beliefs  and  never 
argued  much,  but  a  team  of  oxen  could  not  have 
hauled  him  into  a  pew.  Even  when  Carthage  im 
ported  a  famous  revivalist  and  he  brought  to  the 
mourner's  bench  nearly  every  other  churchless  wretch 
in  town,  he  could  not  seem  to  revive  Hod  Clum. 

His  mother  knew  his  balky  streaks,  and  even  she 
did  not  dare  to  oppose  his  calling  on  Clarastella.  It 
hurt  her  sensitive  soul  excruciatingly,  but  she  never 
let  on  to  Hod. 

Sometimes,  when  his  mother  was  especially  feeble, 
Hod  would  take  her  to  the  church  in  a  buggy.  At 

346 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

first  he  would  ask  Clarastella  to  go  for  a  ride  with 
him,  and  she  could  not  have  felt  more  exhilarated 
if  the  hack  horse  and  the  rattletrap  had  been  a 
crimson  limousine.  But  she  soon  realized  that  Hod 
was  as  weary  of  driving,  when  evening  came,  as  she 
was  of  needlework.  She  had  no  more  right  to  take 
him  driving  than  he  would  have  had  to  bring  her 
his  torn  horse  blankets  to  mend  for  amusement.  So 
she  told  him  she  would  rather  stay  at  home.  She 
said  it  made  her  nervous  to  ride. 

In  the  matter  of  staying  home  from  church  Clara- 
stella's  conscience  was  salved  by  the  fact  that  it 
was  a  sacrifice  to  her. 

The  gathering  of  the  neighbors,  coming  to  the  big 
barn  of  a  church  like  twilight  cattle  swinging  back 
from  the  pastures,  the  music,  the  privilege  of  lifting 
one's  voice  in  evensong,  the  sonorous  eloquence  of 
the  Scriptures,  the  siesta  luxury  of  prayer,  the  com 
fort  of  repentance,  the  renewed  promise  of  mansions 
in  the  skies  for  people  who  stayed  good  in  their  little 
frame  cottages — these  were  important  delights  in 
lives  that  had  no  opportunity  and  no  money  and  no 
tolerance  for  moving  pictures,  balls,  cards,  theaters, 
and  operas. 

Clarastella  still  had  her  Sabbath  mornings  for  her 
own.  She  taught  a  class  in  what  she  never  called 
the  Sunday-school,  and  she  rebuked  the  blasphe 
mous  little  curiosities  that  asked  too  many  questions 
about  Jonah's  submarine  exploit  or  Lot's  saline  wife. 

Afterward  there  was  church,  and  that  was  the 
week's  great  festival. 

They  had  a  right  good  sopranna,  had  her  voice  cul- 
tervated  in  Chicago;  yes,  took  two  terms  of  a  lady 
who'd  studied  abroad  or  leastways  in  Noo  York. 

347 


"MOMMA" 

The  organist,  Mr.  Norman  Maugans,  played  fine, 
too.  He  was  not  stingy  with  the  stops  and  he  had 
a  powerful  foot  on  the  pedals,  and  the  pipes  roared 
like  what  she  supposed  the  ocean  would  have  roared, 
if  she  had  ever  heard  the  ocean  roar.  There  was 
the  prayer  and  then  the  sermon — good  long  ones. 
Some  folks  said  old  Doctor  Melford  was  the  cham 
pion  long-distance  prayer  and  sermonizer  west  of 
the  Mississippi,  but  what  did  Clarastella  care  how 
long  he  preached?  Where  had  she  to  go  that  she 
should  be  in  a  hurry?  She  had  no  place  to  go  when 
he  got  through,  but  back  home  to  her  maw  and  the 
Sunday  dinner-getting. 

The  clothes  and  hats  of  the  women  were  an  added 
attraction  to  Clarastella,  too.  She  was  as  much  in 
terested  in  what  the  congregation  wore  as  Doctor 
Moresmith  was  in  the  way  they  coughed  or  stayed 
at  home.  And  then  there  was  the  pride  of  seeing 
her  own  work  worn  by  some  of  the  best  people. 
This  was  like  Mr.  Maugans's  playing  one  of  his  own 
preludes.  But  most  of  all  there  was  the  unending 
fascination  of  studying  the  back  of  old  Mrs.  Clum's 
head. 

Her  pew  was  six  rows  in  front  of  the  Poseys's. 
She  wore  always  the  same  bonnet  and  black  dress, 
and  she  always  dropped  off  to  sleep  somewhere  be 
tween  the  "Thirdly,  brethern  and  sisters,"  and  the 
"In  conclusion,  friends."  This  was  generally  recog 
nized  as  marking  a  point  about  halfway  along 
toward  the  first  "Finally,"  which  was  followed  by 
several  more  "In  conclusions"  and  a  "Lastly"  or 
two. 

The  back  of  a  head  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  life, 
and  every  Sunday  Clarastella  used  to  study  the 

348 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

back  of  Mrs.  Clum's  head  and  wonder  what  strange 
creature  dwelt  inside. 

Clarastella  had  never  opposed  Mrs.  Clum's  de 
cision,  never  questioned  her  right  to  keep  her  son 
for  her  very  own  as  long  as  she  could.  In  her  first 
rebellions  against  her  lot  Clarastella  had  threat 
ened  to  call  on  the  old  lady  and  tell  her  that  every 
other  mother  in  town  had  surrendered  her  boy  to 
his  fate;  some  of  them  to  more  than  one. 

But  Clarastella  was  of  the  sort  that  does  not  fight. 
She  was  of  the  meek,  who  are  promised  the  inherit 
ance  of  the  earth.  Clarastella  never  called  on  Mrs. 
Clum.  The  first  time  Clarastella  saw  her  coming 
along  the  street  after  the  proposal,  Clarastella  was 
smitten  with  fear,  and  turned  into  the  Hendrickses' 
yard  to  escape  a  meeting,  and  had  to  lie  her  way  out, 
since  the  Hendrickses  were  sitting  on  the  porch. 

Another  time  she  could  not  dodge,  and  so  the  two 
women  spoke  to  each  other,  spoke  as  if  there  were 
no  bond  of  rivalry  between  them.  Mrs.  Clum  sang 
out: 

"Nice  day,  Miss  Posey." 

And  Clarastella  was  craven  enough  to  answer, 
cheerily : 

"Little  warm,  though,  Mizz  Clum." 

And  Mrs.  Clum  rebuked  her  with,  "Got  to  expect 
that  in  July,  though." 

And  Clarastella  accepted  her  slavery. 

"That's  so." 

This  brief  exchange  had  settled  their  public  rela 
tions.  No  one  could  have  imagined,  seeing  them 
give  the  countersign  of  the  weather,  that  the  old 
widow  regarded  the  old  maid  as  the  siren  who  was 
trying  to  decoy  her  son  away  and  leave  her  lonely 

349 


"MOMMA" 

in  her  age ;  no  one  could  have  imagined  that  the  old 
maid  regarded  the  old  widow  as  a  witch  who  had 
put  a  spell  upon  her  life  and  denied  her  the  sons 
and  daughters  that  were  her  unclaimed  heritage  from 
nature. 

Mrs.  Clum  felt  that  Clarastella  was  performing 
incantations,  too,  praying,  no  doubt,  that  she  would 
die.  But  Clarastella  gave  no  such  poison  room  in 
her  prayers  or  in  her  soul.  She  would  almost  as 
soon  have  stabbed  her  one  enemy  as  wished  her 
dead.  She  would  have  thought  the  wish  as  heinous 
as  the  crime. 

Sometimes  Clarastella  reached  the  awful  depth  of 
wailing  aloud  to  her  mother: 

"Oh,  I  wisht  I  was  dead.  What's  the  uset  of  me 
living?  Why  have  I  got  to  go  on  this  way  forever? " 

Her  mother's  answer  quelled  the  revolt,  if  it  did 
not  soothe  the  pain. 

"Shame  on  you  for  a  wicked  girl!  The  Lord  put 
you  here  for  his  own  good  reasons.  It  ain't  for  you 
to  set  yourself  up  and  ask  why." 

Sometimes  Clarastella's  anguish  broke  out  in  the 
presence  of  Hod.  Seeing  him  slouched  enormous  in 
the  rocking  chair,  twiddling  his  thumbs  and  saying 
little  or  nothing  for  an  hour  at  a  time,  the  flame  of 
her  suffering  would  burn  through  her  torpor,  and 
she  would  cry: 

"Hod,  Hod,  I  can't  stand  goin'  on  like  this  any 
longer.  If  you  got  any  mercy  quit  comin'  to  see  me ! 
Go  get  some  other  girl.  Maybe  your  maw  wouldn't 
ubject  to  some  nice,  pirty  young  girl." 

But  Hod  would  shake  his  head  and  grumble : 

"There  ain't  any  other  girl  for  me,  Clarastella. 
Never  was  'n'  never  will  be.  I'll  stay  away  if  I 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

bother  you,  but  I  couldn't  look  at  anybuddy  else. 
O'  course  m'  mother  is  m'  mother,  and  long  as  she's 
alive  I  can't  marry  you;  but  you're  as  good  as  m' 
wife,  and  I — I  got  to — to — "  He  was  trying  to  say 
"to  love  you."  It  was  too  delicate  a  phrase  for  his 
uncouth  speech.  But  Clarastella  knew  what  he  was 
driving  at. 

That  was  Hod  all  over.  Because  she  was  as  good 
as  his  wife  he  naturally  had  to  love  her. 

So  she  would  rebuke  herself  before  him.  She, 
who  had  been  patience'  very  allegory,  would  repent 
her  impatience  and  say: 

"Don't  think  anything  of  it,  Hod.  I  got  one  of 
those  mean  disp'sitions.  It's  lucky  for  you  you're 
not  married  to  me." 

He  would  say,  "Aw,  Clarastellar ! "  And  that  was 
about  as  far  as  he  would  get.  It  meant  that  she  did 
herself  an  injustice. 

He  was  as  incapable  of  tender  speeches,  or  ca 
resses,  to  her  as  to  his  horses.  He  took  good  care  of 
his  horses  and  he  would  not  permit  his  men  to  be 
cruel,  but  he  gave  the  animals  no  caresses. 

Sometimes  Clarastella's  curiosity  would  overcome 
her  scruples  against  speaking  to  Hod  of  his  mother. 
She  would  ask  him  how  his  mother  was.  He  would 
usually  say  that  she  was  poorly. 

It  seemed  a  pity  to  Clarastella  that  a  young  fellow 
like  Hod — he  was  still  a  young  fellow  to  her,  for  all 
his  years  and  solemnities — should  be  chained  to  the 
companionship  of  so  elderly  a  woman,  always  so 
poorly. 

"What  do  you  do  to  pass  the  time?"  she  asked 
him  once,  and  he  explained : 

"Oh,  we  have  good  times  together.     Maw  does 


"MOMMA" 

most  of  the  talkin'.  She  talks  mighty  good.  She's 
not  herself  except  when  she's  with  me.  She's  shy 
before  folks  and  says  what  she  wishes  she  hadn't,  so 
folks  don't  really  know  her  for  what  she  is.  She's 
differ'nt  with  me. 

"She's  full  of  fun  and  jokes  about  ever'thing;  says 
smart  things  about  people;  and  remembers  lots  of 
stories  of  old  times,  the  Civil  War,  and  when  this 
part  of  the  country  was  first  settled  and  the  Indians 
used  to  come  round  to  the  kitchen  and  ask  for  food 
like  tramps,  and  how  folks  didn't  have  the  luxuries 
we  got  now.  She's  as  good  as  a  history  and  she's 
got  a  great  sense  o*  yumor.  She  keeps  me  laughing 
all  the  time;  and  she's  interested  in  my  business, 
knows  a  lot  about  it,  has  mighty  sensible  ideas. 
She's  saved  me  from  lots  of  mistakes.  I'm  so  hasty, 
you  know. 

"And  then  we  read  a  lot.  If  I'm  wore  out  she 
reads  to  me,  but  generally  I  read  to  her.  The  eve 
ning  paper  has  a  stack  of  good  stuff  in  it.  There's 
the  items  about  folks  in  town,  and  the  adv'tisements, 
and  the  news  from  the  East  and  foreign  parts.  And 
on  the  inside  there's  a  lot  o'  useful  information.  We 
read  the  short  story  and  health  hints  and  the  funny 
pictures  and  jokes.  And  there's  articles  about  all 
sorts  of  things.  Las'  night  she  read  one  to  me  on 
'Diet  for  Brain  Workers'  and  one  on  [the  'Peanut 
Industry,'  and  one  on  'Heroes  of  Liberty.' 

"Oh,  we  have  good  times.  And  then  she  don't 
sleep  very  good,  and  she's  always  up  when  I  come 
in  from  makin'  the  late  train  and  she  has  suthin' 
for  me  to  eat  if  I  want  it.  She's  a  mighty  good 
mother,  and  mighty  peart  for  her  years." 

Clarastella  tried  to  be  glad  that  he  was  not  un- 
352 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

happier;  but  she  was  knifed  by  the  thought  of  those 
laughing  and  useful  evenings,  while  she  moped  with 
her  mother,  who  had  no  sense  of  humor  and  no 
interest  in  "Heroes  of  Liberty."  There  was  more 
wail  than  welcome  in  her  comment : 

"I'm  glad  you  have  such  good  times.  It  shows 
you  don't  miss  me." 

"Oh  yes,  I  do!"  Hod  protested.'  "I  miss  you 
all  the  time,  i  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  count  on  these 
evenings  we  have  together.  If  it  wa'n't  for  maw's 
jealousy  I'd  marry  you  so  quick  it  would  make  your 
head  swim.  This  ain't  no  life  at  tall  that  we're 
leadin'.  It's  just  like  settin'  in  the  hack,  at  the  sta 
tion,  waitin'  for  a  train  that's  late." 


IV 

As  life  prisoners  in  penitentiaries  grow  used  to 
their  narrow  cells,  forget  that  they  ever  had  more 
room,  and  hardly  bother  with  hope,  so  prisoners  out 
of  jail  accept  their  destinies  and  somehow  endure 
them.  The  soul  takes  on  callosities  as  the  body  does 
where  it  is  constantly  worn. 

Clarastella  was  like  a  trusty  with  the  franchise  of 
the  prison  yard  and  the  privilege  of  working  hard 
all  day  to  earn  repose  in  the  cell  at  night. 

Years  and  years  went  over  the  heads  of  Clara- 
Stella  and  her  lover,  till  they  were  habituated  to 
their  lot.  The  neighbors  had  wearied  long  ago  of 
discussing  them.  They  themselves  had  wearied  of 
expecting  any  change. 

And  then  Clarastella  happened  in  upon  the  bud 
ding  scandal  of  Mrs.  Alex  Crofoot  and  Bruce  Imrie. 
Clarastella  did  not  stumble  on  any  more  such  scenes, 

353 


"MOMMA" 

because  she  took  pains  not  to  wander  about  the 
house.  She  wanted  to  protect  her  own  eyes  from 
such  contamination,  but  her  hearing  was  sharp,  if 
her  sight  was  fading.  She  could  not  help  hearing 
sometimes. 

The  tame  business  of  the  seamstress  upstairs  had 
suddenly  grown  as  exciting  as  sitting  in  the  gallery 
at  a  melodrama.  The  suspicious  silences  or  mur 
murous  hours  of  the  communions  in  the  parlor  were 
broken  with  occasional  storms — wild,  barbarous 
wrangles,  far  more  bitter  than  any  that  Clarastella 
remembered  ever  overhearing  between  Coralie  and 
either  of  her  husbands.  The  reconciliations  were  all 
the  more  fervid.  Clarastella  could  not  have  helped 
overhearing  if  she  had  tried.  She  did  not  try. 
Eavesdropping  became  the  fearful  rapture  of  a  child 
peeking  into  some  forbidden  book,  kept  locked  up 
for  years,  and  now  and  then  carelessly  left  open  on 
a  table. 

One  afternoon,  not  long  before  the  hour  when  the 
two  children  would  be  coming  in  from  school,  Bruce 
Imrie  called  on  Coralie.  There  was  evidently  some 
great  excitement.  His  familiar  step  on  the  walk 
was  hurried.  He  rang  the  bell  impatiently.  Coralie 
went  to  the  door  herself.  Clarastella  heard  her 
gasp,  "Why,  what's  the  matter?" 

Then  they  whispered  and  mumbled,  as  if  they 
were  conspiring.  Now  and  then  one  or  the  other 
would  repeat  aloud  some  whispered  phrase,  and 
Clarastella  heard  fragments  of  their  colloquy  at  in 
tervals  that  drove  her  frantic.  She  stood  by  the 
door  and  listened  outrageously  and  heard  shreds  of 
tragedy. 

"You  took  the  money?  No,  ah,  no!  Why,  that's 
354 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

embezzlement — they  could  put  you  in  jail  for  that. 
...  It  was  for  me?  I  never  knew  that  or  I  wouldn't 
have  accepted.  You're  trying  to  throw  the  blame 
on  me.  .  .  Leave  me?  No,  no,  no!  I  won't  let  you! 
I  couldn't  live  without  you!  ...  I  couldn't  go  with 
you.  You  must  be  mad!  .  .  .  Well,  I  might — but 
not  so  soon  .  .  .  Must  you  go  to-night? . . .  But  the 
children  ?  How  could  I  leave  the  children  ? .  . .  Money, 
money,  money — it's  always  money! .  .  .  All  right,  to 
night.  I'll  be  there — I'll  have  my  satchel  packed — 
I'll  wear  my  old  mourning  veil  .  .  .  At — eleven — the 
corner.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  .  You'll  be  good  to  me,  won't 
you?" 

By  and  by  Bruce  Imrie  went,  just  as  the  children 
came  home  skipping  the  rope,  and  shouting:  '"Hello, 
Uncle  Bruce!  Hello,  mamma!  Oh,  mamma,  she 
pushed  me  and  I  fell  in  the  mu-ud.  She  did  so!" 
"I  did  not!" — and  the  usual  antiphonal  recital  of 
childish  feuds,  never  so  childish  to  Clarastella  as 
now,  when  the  mother  rebuked  the  older  girl  and 
smacked  her  hand,  and  then  smothered  her  with 
kisses  when  she  cried.  Clarastella  wanted  to  fly  to 
the  rescue  of  the  howling  child  and  to  shriek  at 
Coralie : 

"You  let  her  alone,  now!  What  right  you  got  to 
punish  anybody  for  anything?  What  right  you  got 
to  strike  a  child?  And  you  got  even  less  right  to 
kiss  her,  you  with  your  mouth  all  red  from  kissin' 
Bruce  Imrie.  You  got  no  right  to  own  a  child  or  a 
husband  or  a  lover  or  a  nice  home  like  this.  You 
got  no  right  to  live !  Give  me  that  baby ! " 

That  was  what  Clarastella  shrieked  in  imagina 
tion  as  she  seized  Coralie's  hands  and  tore  the  child 
from  her  embrace.  But  Coralie,  lugging  her  daugh- 

355 


"MOMMA" 

ter  up  the  steps  and  pausing  to  look  in  at  the  sewing 
room,  saw  only  a  little  old  maid  finishing  a  button 
hole  and  biting  the  thread  off. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Clarastella  that  Coralie  did 
not  linger  at  the  door,  for  she  could  not  have  kept 
up  the  pretense  of  obliviousness  a  moment  longer. 
She  was  no  actress.  She  would  have  been  horrified 
to  be  told  that  she  could  be  one.  She  was  horrified 
enough  with  the  hypocrisy  that  seemed  to  be  forced 
upon  her. 

She  wanted  to  escape  from  the  house,  but  she  was 
afraid  to  budge  until  her  usual  hour.  Then  she  folded 
up  her  sewing,  took  the  thimble  from  her  finger,  and 
closed  the  neat  workbasket  that  was  her  kit  of  tools. 

She  had  to  tell  her  mother  this  new  gossip,  and 
her  mother  felt  with  her  that  things  had  gone  past 
the  point  where  Clarastella  should  mind  her  own 
business  and  say  nothing.  But  what  could  she  do? 
All  through  supper  and  its  aftermath  in  the  dish 
water  the  two  forlorn  women  wondered  what  they 
had  ought  to  do.  And  then,  as  if  the  soft  and  mourn 
ful  beauty  of  the  gloaming  had  been  gathered  into 
sound,  the  church  bell  began  to  complain. 

It  was  prayer-meetin'  night.  Hod  Clum  would 
be  droppin'  in  in  a  little  while. 


Clarastella  had  not  mentioned  the  Imrie  affair  to 
Hod.  It  was  too  improper  a  subject  for  the  discus 
sion  of  an  unmarried  couple,  for,  after  all,  fourteen 
years  of  being  engaged  did  not  equal  one  of  being 
married.  Besides,  she  did  not  like  to  worry  Hod. 
He  had  problems  enough  of  his  own,  with  horses 

356 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

going  lame  and  getting  sick,  and  folks  not  paying 
their  bills  and  the  price  of  feed  getting  higher  every 
day. 

But  the  situation  was  beyond  Clarastella's  man 
agement.  She  could  neither  decide  what  she  should 
nor  what  she  could  do.  She  needed  a  husband's 
advice  terrible.  Hod  would  have  to  be  told,  so's  he 
could  tell  her  what  she'd  ought  to  do. 

When  he  came,  and  was  comfortably  established 
in  his  rocker,  and  the  heat  of  the  day  and  the  pros 
pects  of  rain  had  been  discussed,  he  sheepishly  con 
fessed  that  a  newly  bought  horse,  named  Fan,  had 
developed  a  brilliant  example  of  the  asthma.  The 
wily  dealer  had  exhibited  Fan's  paces  on  an  empty 
stomach  with  her  symptoms  suppressed  by  a  seda 
tive.  Hod  had  been  taken  in  by  her  speed  and  ap 
pearance  and  he  was  amusedly  ashamed  of  himself. 

When  he  had  sufficiently  berated  himself  for  his 
innocence  in  buying  a  horse  with  the  heaves,  Clara- 
stella  brought  up  her  own  bit  of  news.  She  began 
so  far  back  and  proceeded  with  such  detail  that  Hod 
began  to  grow  nervous.  He  managed  to  steal  a  look 
at  his  watch  with  polite  surreptition,  but  he  had  to 
snap  the  case  shut. 

That  startled  Clarastella  into  an  unusually  peev 
ish  remark: 

"I  don't  care  if  your  mother  does  have  to  wait  a 
few  minutes  for  once.  She's  safe  enough  in  church, 
I  guess.  And  you  got  to  help  me." 

"I'm  not  thinkin'  o'  my  mother,  Clarastella. 
She  didn't  go  to  prayer  meetin'  to-night.  She's 
right  poorly.  She'll  be  all  right  in  a  day  or  two,  but 
she's  home  to-night." 

"Didn't  go  to  prayer  meetin'?"  Clarastella 
357 


"MOMMA" 

'gasped,  as  if  he  had  said  that  the  sun  was  unable 
to  set  that  evening,  but  would  rise  as  usual  next 
Friday.  The  further  significance  of  the  fact  thrilled 
Clarastella. 

"If  your  maw  isn't  to  the  church,  how  come  you 
to  be  here?" 

"Oh,  maw  says  she  knew  you'd  be  expectin'  me 
and  she  didn't  want  to  disappoint  you,  so  she  made 
me  come  on  over." 

Clarastella's  heart  swung  to  Mrs.  Clum  with  a 
bound.  The  people  who  have  waited  upon  us  and 
benefited  us  all  their  lives  can  hardly  win,  with  any 
extravagance  of  generosity,  such  a  rush  of  affection 
as  our  oppressors  and  enemies  can  gain  with  one 
gentle  thought,  one  mere  relinquishment  of  tyranny. 

Clarastella's  old  bitterness  spoke  impulsively: 

"She  must  be  awful  sick.  I  wonder, you'd  risk 
leaving  her." 

"Old  Mis'  Gormley  is  settin'  up  with  her  and  I 
got  to  go  out  later,  anyway.  But  go  awn!" 

He  settled  back,  and  Clarastella  went  on.  She 
took  up  Bruce  Imrie's  intrigue  with  Coralie.  Hod 
was  nearly  as  shy  as  she  was.  But  when  she  spoke 
of  their  plan  to  run  away  with  each  other,  Hod  sat 
up  in  a  sudden  excitement,  and  began  to  punctuate 
her  phrases  with  "So  that's  it,  is  it?  Uh-huh!  So 
that's  it!" 

At  length  Clarastella  stopped  short  to  protest : 

"So  that's  what?  What  you  keep  saying  'That's 
it '  for  ? ' '  Hod  shook  his  head. 

"Go  awn  and  finish  what  you  got  to  say,  and  then 
I'll  tell  you  what  I  got  to  say." 

Curiosity  stimulated  Clarastella  to  a  triumph  of 
brevity.  Hod  had  spoiled  her  climax  with  his  in- 

358 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

v   wit    . 

terpolations,  but  he  had  promised  her  a  further 
installment  of  the  mystery. 

When  she  gave  him  the  floor,  he  began : 

"This  afternoon,  along  about  five  o'clock,  just 
after  the  time  Imrie  would  'a'  been  leavin'  Mis' 
Crofoot,  I  guess,  he  come  to  my  stable  and  said: 
'Mr.  Clum,  I  got  to  drive  up  to  Way  land  Junction/ 
s'  he,  'and  take  the  A.  C.  &  D.  midnight  to  Chicago 
to-night,'  he  says.  And  I  says: 

"'Whyn't  you  take  the  train  that  leaves  here  at 
eight?'  s'  I;  'you  can  lay  over  in  Way  land  Junc 
tion,'  s'  I,  'like  everybody  else  does  from  here.' 
He  hemmed  and  hawed,  and  he  says:  'I  can't  get 
ready  in  time  to  catch  the  eight  o'clock.  I  got  to 
be  drove  up,'  s'  he.  So  I  says:  'All  right,  you're 
the  doctor;  I'll  give  you  a  buggy  and  a  man  to  bring 
the  horse  back,'  s'  I.  But  he  says,  'A  buggy  won't 
do,'  s'  he,  'there  '11  be  another — er — party  besides 
myself,'  he  says.  'Oh,'  says  I,  'you'll  want  a  hack. 
That  '11  cost  a  little  more,'  I  says,  'but  I'll  treat  you 
right.'  He  says:  'Don't  care  how  much  it  costs,'  s' 
he,  'providin'  I  get  the  train.  I  wouldn't  miss  it 
for  a  farm.  Gimme  the  fastest  horse  you  got  and  the 
best  driver,'  he  says.  And  I  says,  'All  right,  I  will.' " 

Clarastella  looked  at  him  with  wild  eyes,  and 
nodded  wisely,  and  she  said: 

"You  and  I  know  who  that  other  party  is  going 
to  be." 

"We  do  now,"  said  Hod.  "That's  why  I  was 
lookin'  at  my  watch,  to  make  sure  I  wouldn't  miss 
gettin'  back  to  the  stable  so's  to  help  harness  him 
up  a  good  horse.  I  was  goin'  to  give  him  January 
Molasses,  and  Quinine.  They'd  be  sure  to  make  it, 
but  now  I  don't  care  whether  they  make  it  or  not. 

359 


"MOMMA" 

I  don't  like  the  idea  of  their  usin'  one  of  my  teams 
for  such  doin's." 

"It  makes  you  a  kind  of  pardner  in  their  iniquity," 
said  Clarastella.  "I  don't  see  how  you  can  afford 
to  be  mixed  up  in  it.  Seems  like  our  bounden  duty 
to  put  a  stop  to  it  somehow." 

"Yes,rbut  how  is  somehow?" 

"That's  what's  beyond  me.  Do  you  suppose  we 
could  report  'em  to  the  police  and  have  'em  ar 
rested?" 

"What  ev'dence  you  got  to  have  'em  arrested 
on?" 

"I  heard  her  tell  him  it  was  embezzlement." 

"Yes,  but  hearin'  tell  ain't  ev'dence.  You  can't 
swear  out  any  warrant  against  a  man  on  what  one 
woman  says  she  heard  another  woman  say." 

"Well,  you  ought  to  could.  I  don't  know  what 
better  evidence  you  could  want.  You  men  just  wait 
till  us  women  get  at  these  fool  laws.  We'll  fix  'em 
up  so's  they'll  be  practical." 

"Mebbe,  but  that  will  be  just  a  little  mite  late  for 
this  case." 

The  riddle  floored  them,  and  they  sat  without 
speaking  for  a  long  time;  the  duet  of  their  creaking 
rocking  chairs,  like  two  frogs  calling  to  each  other, 
was  the  only  sound. 

Hod  was  so  deep  in  thought  that  it  was  Clara- 
Stella  who  noted  the  alarming  progress  of  the  hands 
on  the  old  clock.  Duty  compelled  her  to  point  them 
out  to  Hod.  He  verified  the  time  by  his  own  watch 
and  snapped  the  case  shut  as  he  heaved  himself  out 
of  his  chair. 

The  energy  of  his  rise  gave  him  his  inspiration. 
He  was  so  excited  with  it  that  he  actually  kissed 

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YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

Clarastella  good-by  and  squeezed  her  shoulders  a 
little  closer  together. 

"I  think  I  got  the  idea,"  he  said. 

' '  What  is  it  ?     Tell  me ! "  she  cried. 

'"Ain't  got  time,"  he  answered.  "It  might  not 
work  out.  I'm  goin'  to  do  my  best,  though." 

"But  tell  me,  teU  me!" 

'"Ain't  got  time.  If  you  should  happen  to  be 
settin'  up  that  late,  have  a  lamp  burnin'  in  your 
window,  and  I'll  come  by  and  let  you  know." 

He  hurried  away,  leaving  her  frantic. 


VI 

Bruce  Imrie  was  waiting  on  the  curb.  When  the 
hack  with  the  horses  pranced  up  Hod  Clum  himself 
was  on  the  box.  Imrie  had  his  watch  in  his  hands : 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?" 

"Yep." 

"You're  late,"  Imrie  growled,  as  he  threw  in  a 
suit  case. 

"Did  the  best  I  could." 

"Are  those  the  best  horses  you've  got?" 

"Fastest  team  in  Carthage.  The  nigh  horse  is  old 
Quinine,  and  the  off  one  I  just  bought,  a  Jim  dandy. 
Her  name  is  Fan." 

"What  do  I  care  what  their  names  are?  You  get 
me  to  that  train  or  I'll  break  your  neck." 

Bruce  bent  his  high  head  and  crept  into  the  coach. 
And  Hod  laughed,  though  ordinarily  he  did  not 
encourage  familiarities  from  his  fares.  Imrie  had 
his  head  out  in  a  moment,  to  say: 

' '  Stop  at  the  corner  of  Third  and  Washington  for 
— for  another  passenger." 

24  361 


"MOMMA" 

"Yep.    G'ap!" 

At  the  corner,  in  the  dense  shadow  of  maple  trees, 
stood  a  woman  in  a  heavy  black  veil.  The  disguise 
identified  her.  Hod  felt  a  sinking  of  the  heart  as 
Bruce  Imrie  stepped  out  and  helped  her  in  with  a 
caressing  solicitude  that  sickened  the  driver. 

Not  that  Hod  was  opposed  to  caresses.  He  envied 
other  people  their  gifts  in  amorous  gesture,  and 
regretted  his  own  paralysis  whenever  the  occasion 
arrived  where  an  embrace  would  be  appropriate. 
He  was  fond  of  his  horses,  but  he  was  ashamed  to 
give  them  sugar. 

An  important  source  of  his  revenue  was  the  pur 
veying  of  horses  and  buggies  to  young  men  of  a 
mating  disposition.  Hod  knew  that  the  purpose  of 
a  horsanbuggy  is  to  convey  a  pair  of  lovers  away 
from  the  crowds  into  an  outer  dualitude  where  the 
business  of  wooing  can  be  transacted. 

In  spite  of  appearances  Hod  Clum  was  the  most 
active  local  agent  of  Cupid,  Hymen  &  Co.  He  had 
driven  many  an  eloping  couple  out  of  the  reach  of 
obstinate  parents  and  under  the  sheltering  palms 
of  the  parson.  He  had  driven  numberless  bridal 
couples  more  overtly  to  churches  and  to  trains.  It 
was  the  irony  of  his  fate  that  he  who  drove  such  a 
trade  in  the  transfer  of  lovers  should  have  been  denied 
the  privilege  of  one  of  his  own  horsanbuggies. 

But  he  had  never  knowingly  assisted  in  the  wreck 
ing  of  a  home  or  an  elopement  of  illicit  lovers.  And 
he  hated  his  task  now.  He  consented  to  it  only 
with  an  ulterior  motive  of  benevolent  dishonesty. 

Bruce  Imrie  kept  popping  his  head  out  to  urge 
him  to  greater  speed,  but  Hod  would  answer  back: 
"Plenty  o'  time,  Mister  Imrie.  Plenty  o'  time." 

362 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

He  was  as  considerate  of  his  beasts  as  a  livery 
man  could  be.  He  knew  that  keeping  horses  and 
humans  to  their  paces,  with  some  variety  and  re 
laxation,  was  better  for  them  than  a  relentless 
monotony  of  jog. 

He  could  hear  nothing  from  the  carriage  but  the 
rumble  of  wheels,  though  he  thought  for  a  while 
that  Coralie  was  weeping  and  Imrie  impatiently 
consoling  her. 

A  mile  or  two  outside  Wayland  Junction  he  drew 
up  the  horses  near  a  watering  trough  and  got  down 
from  the  box. 

Bruce  Imrie's  head  came  out  at  once. 

"What's  the  matter  now?    Break  something?" 

"Nope,"  said  Hod.  "Don't  worry,  I'm  away 
ahead  of  time,  so  I  thought  I'd  feed  the  hosses  a 
little." 

"Stop  here  to  feed  horses?  Who  ever  heard  of 
such  a  thing!  You  get  back  up  there  and  drive  on." 

"Nope,  I  guess  I'll  give  'em  a  snack  out  of  their 
nose  bags,"  said  Hod.  "Fan  come  in  from  a  drive 
late  and  didn't  get  her  supper.  They's  quite  a  long 
hill  ahead,  and  she'd  like  her  supper." 

"She  can  have  her  supper  after  we  get  to  Way- 
land  Junction,"  Imrie  raged.  "You  drive  on  or 
I'll  take  the  lines  myself." 

"Say,  young  feller,  whose  rig  you  think  this  is?" 
Hod  demanded,  with  truculence.  "A  mussiful  man, 
is  mussiful  to  his  hosses,  and  Fan  j;its  her  supper. 
If  you  don't  like  it,  git  out  and  walk,  and  it  won't 
cost  you  nothin'.  I'll  throw  in  what  ride  you've 
had." 

Imrie  was  furious,  but  Hod  could  see  other  arms 
restraining  him,  and  he  could  hear  Coralie's  voice, 

363 


"MOMMA" 

pleading,  "Don't  anger  him,  Bruce,  please,  for  my 
sake." 

"That's  right,  Mis — Mis  Whoever-you-are,"  said 
Hod;  "don't  let  him  lose  his  head." 

He  set  the  nose  bags  before  the  puffing  steeds,  and 
they  were  soon  crunching  sonorously.  Fan's  nose 
bag  had  far  the  larger  provender.  Hod  paced  up 
and  down,  watching  the  moon  and  opening  and 
shutting  his  watch,  while  Imrie  gnashed  his  teeth 
and  imagined  vain  things.  When  the  banquet  was 
finished  Hod  took  off  the  nose  bags,  flung  them  under 
the  seat,  and  led  the  horses  forward  to  where  a 
primitive  trough  carried  a  runnel  of  water  from  a 
hillside  spring  down  to  an  old  tub.  The  moonshine 
gave  the  trickling  stream  the  glimmer  of  fluid  silver, 
and  it  thumped  into  the  tub  with  as  chiming  a 
laughter  as  if  it  were  the  very  pool  where  the  hours 
watered  their  mystic  steeds.  It  was  a  wayside  altar 
of  a  sort,  and  on  hot  days  and  nights  thirsty  horses 
bowed  their  heads  there  and  went  thence  blessed. 

But  the  mare,  Fan,  took  no  benefit  from  there. 
Hod  was  outchuckling  the  spring.  He  knew  that 
while,  in  the  heavens,  night  brings  out  the  stars, 
among  horses  a  full  meal  with  plenty  of  cold  water 
brings  out  the  heaves,  especially  if  the  meal  in 
cludes  clover  hay.  And  Hod  had  selected  for  Fan 
a  bonne  bouche  of  clover  hay. 

He  let  Fan  drink  till  even  she  lifted  her  dripping 
muzzle  from  the  cold  water  and  shouldered  her  pole- 
mate  aside.  She  seemed  content  completely,  but 
Hod  gave  her  an  uncharacteristic  pat  on  the  nose, 
and  mumbled  with  aching  conscience : 

"Poor  Fan,  I  hated  to  do  it,  but  I  had  to." 

Then  he  climbed  to  the  box  and  urged  the  team 
364 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

against  the  long  ridge  that  shelters  Wayland  Junc 
tion  from  the  pleasant  south  winds.  Ordinarily  Hod 
nursed  his  horses  up  and  down  a  hill,  but  now,  with 
voice  and  whip,  he  caricatured  Ben  Hur. 

Artists  think  in  the  mediums  they  are  used  to. 
Michelangelo  saw  things  in  terms  of  marble,  and 
chopped  it  away  with  savagery.  Cellini  dreamed  in 
spouting  streams  of  molten  bronze.  Shakespeare's 
thoughts  fell  naturally  into  scenes  and  dialogue.  Hod 
Clum's  form  of  expression  was  horses,  and  he  used 
his  medium  as  relentlessly  as  the  other  geniuses  dealt 
with  theirs.  He  was  cruel,  but  with  a  structural 
purpose. 

The  snap  of  the  lash  and  the  rataplan  of  the  hoofs 
sounded  good  to  Bruce  Imrie,  and  his  heart  galloped 
with  more  hope;  but  presently  he  heard  another 
sound  that  disquieted  even  his  untutored  ears,  a 
sound  of  gigantic  breathing,  a  windy  expiration  of 
forced  breath.  Fan  stopped  to  cough,  but  Hod 
ruthlessly  drove  her  on  with  menace  of  lash  and 
voice.  She  barked  her  way  to  the  top  of  the  hill, 
and  then  her  legs  refused  to  carry  her  farther. 

The  hack  stopped  with  a  jolt. 

After  a  time  Bruce  Imrie  stepped  out  to  the  ground 
and  watched  the  throes  of  the  equine  Camille. 

Fan  was  panting  with  the  utmost  violence.  She 
drew  in  her  breath  peaceably  enough,  but  she  ex 
pelled  it  with  immense  noise.  She  was  working  with 
a  leaky  bellows,  and  the  great  muscles  of  flank  and 
belly  were  lashing  and  straining  to  expel  the  air  from 
the  incompetent  lungs. 

Man  or  beast,  in  a  spasm  of  coughing,  is  a  hard 
sight  for  the  hardest  heart  to  watch.  Some  huge, 
invisible,  Gargantuan  baby  seemed  to  be  satisfying 

365 


"MOMMA" 

an  infantile  malice  by  snapping  and  twisting  and 
flapping  the  big  jumping  jack. 

The  emotional  Coralie  was  overcome  with  pity  for 
the  wretched  horse.  She  forgot  her  own  discontents 
before  the  vision  of  that  dumb  sufferer. 

Hod's  soul  was  ugly  with  remorse;  he  began  to 
believe  that  the  homes  and  lives  of  all  the  Imries  and 
Crofoots  in  the  world  were  not  worth  one  moment's 
torment  for  that  mare. 

Even  Bruce  Imrie,  who  was  too  sentimental  for 
his  own  prosperity,  would  have  felt  more  pity  for 
Fan  if  he  had  felt  less  for  himself.  Catching  that 
train  was  all-important.  From  the  height  where 
they  stood  he  could  look  across  a  valley  to  the  little 
town  of  Wayland  Junction.  So  nearly  all  of  the 
lights  were  out  that  the  few  illuminated  windows 
aroused  suspicion;  one  wondered  what  those  mis 
creants  were  up  to  who  dwelt  behind  them. 

Imrie  looked  at  his  watch.  There  was  little  time 
to  waste. 

"How  long  is  that  old  fool  going  to  cough? " 

"Ask  her,"  said  Hod. 

"How  long  does  she  usually  act  like  this?" 

"I  'ain't  had  her  but  a  short  while,"  said  Hod. 
"First  time  she  was  attacked  it  lasted  quite  a  spell. 
Second  time  it  wa'n't  so  long." 

"How  long  is  quite  a  spell?"  Imrie  snarled. 

"That  depends,"  said  Hod. 

"Why  in  hell — pardon  me,  Coralie — did  you  have 
to  wish  the  old  hatrack  on  me?" 

"She  ain't  no  hatrack.  She's  a  mighty  strong 
boss.  Otherwise  she  couldn't  stand  the  wear  and 
tear  she's  gettin'  now.  Look  at  her.  Ain't  she 
strong?  You  asked  for  the  fastest  team  I  had,  and 

366 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

them  two  can  make  better  time  than  any  other  pair 
I  got.  Fan  don't  often  disappoint  me." 

"But  you  promised  to  get  me  to  the  train." 

"Well,  I  got  you  within  footin'  distance  of  it.  If 
you  light  out  now  you  can  make  it."  He  opened 
and  closed  the  clam  shell  of  his  watch. 

Imrie  seemed  to  be  gargling  his  throat,  but  it  was 
with  curses.  Then  he  turned  to  Coralie. 

"Do  you  think  we  can  do  it,  dear?" 

"How  far  is  it?"  Coralie  faltered.  "It  looks  ter 
ribly  far." 

Hod  answered: 

"It's  a  good  two  mile  or  mebbe  more.  And  it 
would  take  right  smart  of  running  to  make  it." 

"Great  heavens!  I  never  was  able  to  run  or  walk 
very  far,  and  I  have  on  high-heeled  shoes,  and  my 
heart  is  acting  funny." 

Hod  spoke  with  assumed  surprise. 

"Why,  if  it  ain't  Miz'  Crofoot.  Just  ridin'  over 
to  the  deepo  with  Mr.  Imrie,  eh?  Well,  since  you'd 
be  goin'  back,  anyway,  no  use  runnin'  all  that  dis 
tance.  Tell  him  good-by  here  and  leave  him  hike. 
Fan  '11  be  calming  down  before  long,  and  I'll  get  you 
back  home  safe  and  sound  as  a  new  dollar." 

Coralie  was  thrown  into  utter  confusion  by  Hod's 
recognition  and  by  his  apparent  unconsciousness  of 
her  guilty  plans.  She  could  not  answer  him. 

Hod  walked  away  and  devoted  himself  to  strok 
ing  Fan  and  talking  to  her.  Even  his  slow  brain 
imagined  what  was  being  said  by  the  whisperers  in 
the  gloom.  There  were  groans  and  sobs,  and  re 
peated  embraces  and  outcries  against  their  lot,  and 
promises  of  reunion  later. 

Then  Imrie  darted  from  Coralie's  arms  and  ran 

367 


"MOMMA" 

down  the  hill;  he  ran  awkwardly,  his  heavy  suit 
case  knocking  against  shin  and  calf  and  throwing 
him  off  his  stride.  In  the  dim  light  the  local  Apollo 
looked  grotesque  and  poltroon  and  fugitive.  He  had 
forgotten  to  pay  for  the  ride,  but  Hod  did  not  add 
his  voice  to  the  pitiful  wails  that  Coralie  was  sending 
out  into  the  dark  after  him.  "Good-by!"  and 
"Good-by!"  and  "Good-by!" 

Once  or  twice  Imrie's  voice  came  back  choked 
and  breathless.  Then  he  was  lost.  All  was  shadow 
and  silence.  Even  the  worn-out  horse  ceased  to 
cough,  and  drooped  dejectedly. 

Coralie — alone,  dismayed,  abandoned — was  silent, 
too,  staring  off  into  the  sea  of  moonlight  that 
drowned  her  lover  and  staring  back  into  the  sea  of 
moonlight  that  swallowed  her  home,  her  children, 
and  her  husband.  Her  past  was  to  be  her  future, 
and  she  was  afraid  of  it.  Suddenly  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  sobs  bent  and  racked  her 
delicate  frame,  as  if  the  Gargantuan  baby  had  flung 
the  toy  horse  aside  and  had  taken  the  doll  for  the 
next  plaything  to  torture. 

Coralie  stumbled  and  staggered  in  her  blind 
frenzy.  Hod  longed  to  comfort  her,  but  did  not 
know  how.  At  length  she  fell  against  him.  His  arms 
went  round  her  to  support  her,  and  stayed  there. 
He  patted  her  back  as  if  she  were  a  sick  horse. 

The  tormentor  tired  also  of  Coralie  at  last  and 
flung  her  down.  She  was  as  calm  and  unresisting  as 
a  broken  toy.  She  could  cry  no  more.  She  faced 
her  life  clear  eyed  and  resigned,  but  without  resource. 
She  felt  in  her  heart  that  she  would  never  see  Bruce 
Imrie  again.  She  dreaded  to  go  back  to  her  deserted 
home,  but  she  had  no  other  shelter. 

368 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

"Better  git  in  now,"  said  Hod. 

He  opened  the  carriage  door  for  her,  but  she 
shrank  from  entering  the  black  cell  alone.  A  few 
minutes  before  it  had  been  a  sedan  of  romance. 
Now  it  was  an  empty  grave. 

Hod  had  one  of  the  few  inspirations  of  his  life. 

"Maybe  you'd  ruther  ride  up  there  with  me,  see 
ing  it's  such  a  fine  night." 

Coralie  stared  at  him  in  amazement  at  the  sug 
gestion. 

He  added: 

"Nobody  ain't  goin'  to  see  you." 

That  made  its  usual  all-important  difference.  Rid 
ing  on  the  seat  of  a  hack  with  a  driver  was  ridicu 
lous,  but  riding  alone  in  that  dark  and  bouncing 
closet  was  intolerable.  Hod  helped  her  up.  She  was 
prettily  awkward  and  timid  and  he  enjoyed  his 
superiority.  Perhaps  if  Clarastella  had  cried  on  his 
breast  and  been  helpless  she  would  have  won  him 
long  before,  in  spite  of  his  mother. 

Hod  clambered  to  his  place,  turned  the  carriage 
round,  and  set  out  with  all  the  exultance  of  a  shep 
herd  bringing  back  a  ewe  lamb  he  had  torn  from  a 
wolf. 

Hod's  heart  was  full  of  moral  lectures  and  common 
sense,  but  his  tongue  could  not  express  them.  That 
was  to  be  Clarastella's  share  in  the  rescue. 

By  and  by  they  heard  the  faint  hoot  of  the  mid 
night  express  drawing  into  Wayland  Junction. 
There  was  a  pause,  then  the  train  started  up  again 
and  rattled  off  into  oblivion,  with  the  peculiar  clatter 
of  distant  trains  purring  through  spacious  country 
midnights. 

Both  Coralie  and  Hod  wondered  if  Bruce  Imrie 
369 


"MOMMA" 

had  caught  the  train.  They  had  a  feeling  that  he 
had.  They  seemed  to  see  him  swing  aboard  the  last 
platform,  breathless,  but  secure. 

At  length  the  hack  reached  the  outskirts  of  Car 
thage,  its  lampposts  like  watchmen  fallen  asleep  with 
lanterns  held  up.  Now  and  then  a  vague  pedestrian 
moved  belatedly  abroad.  Coralie  thought  that  she 
would  better  get  down  and  ride  inside.  As  Hod  was 
handing  her  in  she  was  attacked  with  a  new  onset  of 
fear.  She  forgot  Hod's  fiction  of  her  errand,  and 
whispered: 

"I — I'm  afraid — afraid  to  goho-home,  Mr.  Clum. 
My  hus-husband  will  have  missed  me.  He  may — 
may  have  told  the  police,  or  he  may  have  locked  the 
door — the  door  against  me." 

Hod  had  not  thought  of  old  Alex  Crofoot  in  the 
r61e  of  the  belligerent  husband.  He  had  hardly 
thought  of  him  at  all.  He  stood  nonplused.  Then 
he  bethought  him  of  Clarastella,  waiting  up,  doubt' 
less,  to  hear  the  news.  This  was  a  woman's  business. 
He  said: 

"You  come  right  along  over  to  Miss  Posey's 
house." 

"But  I  can't  wake  her  up!" 

"I  got  a  notion  she'll  be  awake.  We  can  drive 
past,  anyway,  and  see  if  there's  a  light." 

Coralie's  poverty  of  wits  consented,  and  she 
stepped  in.  Hod  mounted  the  box,  and  the  hoofs  of 
the  team  troubled  the  somnolent  streets.  To  Hod's 
relief  Clarastella' s  light  was  burning.  He  threw  to 
the  ground  the  weight  that  held  the  horses,  climbed 
down,  opened  the  door  for  Coralie,  and  whispered : 

"Miss  Posey's  up." 

Miss  Posey  was  not  up.  She  was  asleep  by  her 
370 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

lamp,  and  when  she  heard  the  stealthy  knocking  on 
the  door  she  woke  with  a  start,  stared  about,  shiv 
ered,  looked  at  the  clock,  accused  it  of  having 
stopped  the  afternoon  before,  then  decided  that 
burglars  were  knocking  for  admittance. 

At  length  she  remembered,  and  hurried  to  the 
door.  To  her  amazement  Hod  was  not  alone.  He 
brought  with  him  the  forlorn  Coralie,  the  pretty  little 
employer  who  was  now  her  suppliant.  It  was  Cora- 
lie's  first  call  on  Miss  Posey. 

But  the  Coralie  whom  Hod  had  put  into  his  car 
riage  at  the  outskirts  of  the  town  was  not  the  Coralie 
he  took  out.  The  few  minutes  in  the  dark  had  set 
her  back  in  the  spell  of  Bruce  Imrie,  whose  ghost 
was  there.  Hod  mumbled  to  Clarastella : 

"Miz*  Crofoot  is  afraid  Mr.  Crofoot  has  locked 
her  out  at  home,  and  she  wants  you  to  advise  her 
how  to  git  back." 

But  Coralie  said: 

' '  No,  no,  I  don't  want  to  go  back  to  him.  I  won't ! 
I  want  Miss  Posey  to  keep  me  here  till  the  first  train 
for  Chicago,  and  I  want  Mr.  Clum  to  come  for  me 
with  a  closed  carriage  and  take  me  to  the  train." 

She  had  a  plan  now,  and  she  was  again  the  exigent, 
imperious  Coralie.  She  added: 

"Also,  I'd  like  to  borrow  some  money.  I'll  send 
it  back  as  soon  as  I  see  Mr.  Imrie." 

Hod  and  Clarastella  both  sat  down  and  left  her 
standing,  like  an  unsolvable  riddle. 


VII 

It  was  strange  that  the  business  of  such  a  woman 
should  have  to  be  transacted  with  such  a  couple. 


"MOMMA" 

Hod's  mind  went  first  to  the  money  question.  He 
grinned  at  the  thought  of  Bruce  Imrie  giving  Coralie 
money  to  send  back  to  pay  a  loan.  Bruce  Imrie  did 
not  believe  in  paying  money  back;  he  believed  in 
paying  it  forward.  He  owed  nearly  everybody  in 
town.  There  was  an  old  yellow  account  against  him 
in  Clum's  books.  He  had  not  paid  for  his  last  ride. 
He  had  not  remembered  to  give  Coralie  the  money 
to  pay  for  it. 

With  money  as  tight  as  it  was,  there  was  small 
inducement  to  use  it  for  financing  the  wrecking  of 
Coralie's  life.  Hod  spoke  first.  He  said: 

"It  ain't  likely,  Miz'  Crofoot,  we're  goin'  to  pay 
your  expenses  for  any  such  foolishness." 

"You  won't  lend  me  the  money?"  Coralie  de 
manded,  in  amazement. 

"Not  so's  you  could  notice  it,"  said  Hod. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  ain't  sure  of  your  s'curity." 

"Take  these  two  rings,  then."  She  pulled  from 
her  fingers  an  ornate  jewel,  and  a  wedding  ring,  and 
said:  "Mr.  Crofoot  gave  them  to  me.  I  don't  want 
them  any  more." 

Clarastella  had  found  such  difficulties  in  achieving 
a  plain  gold  band  that  she  marveled  at  the  ease  with 
which  wedding  rings  slid  off  and  on  the  fingers  of 
Coralie.  Hod  rejected  the  pledges. 

"I'm  afraid  those  there  belong  to  Mr.  Crofoot  as 
soon  as  you're  through  with  'em." 

Coralie  turned  from  him,  in  disgust,  to  Clarastella. 

"Miss  Posey,  will  you  lend  me  the  money?  You 
must  have  saved  a  good  deal!" 

The  notorious  ant  was  greatly  flattered  by  the 
appeal  of  the  beautiful  locust,  but  she  dared  not 

372 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

grant  it.  It  was  not  stinginess,  but  conscience, 
that  forbade.  It  cost  Clarastella  a  great  pang  to 
deny  herself  the  splendor  of  tossing  money  to  the 
aristocrat. 

Instead,  Clarastella  said  to  the  indignant  Clum: 

"Hod,  you  better  run  along  home  now.  Your 
maw  will  be  worryin'.  I'll  take  care  of  Miz' 
Crofoot." 

Hod  beckoned  her  to  come  to  the  door,  and 
whispered : 

"Don't  you  give  her  one  cent;  you'll  never  get 
it  back." 

"Go  on  home,"  said  Clarastella.  "You've  done 
your  share." 

Hod  took  the  horses  back  to  the  stable  and  found 
that  his  mother  had  been  sending  messages  for  him 
with  increasing  urgency.  Miss  Gormley  had  been 
to  the  stable  three  times. 

He  stopped  the  stableman,  who  was  about  to 
unharness  the  horses,  and  drove  out  home  at  all  the 
speed  he  could  lash  from  the  weary  team. 

Meanwhile  Clarastella  and  Coralie  had  worked 
their  way  into  sufficient  familiarity  for  the  confer 
ence  to  develop  into  a  bitter  wrangle.  Clarastella 
insisted  on  Coralie's  going  home.  Coralie  was 
driven  at  length  to  the  bluntness  of  saying : 

"Miss  Posey,  you're  getting  impudent  to  me. 
Please  mind  your  own  business  and  let  me  mind 
mine." 

Clarastella  answered  her  as  if  she  were  sticking 
needles  into  Coralie. 

"Mind  your  own  business,  you  say?  Do  you 
mean  I'm  to  turn  you  out  into  the  street  and  go  to 
bed?  Let  you  mind  your  business?  Well,  why 

373 


"MOMMA" 

don't  you?  It's  just  about  time  you  was  quittin' 
this  foolishness  and  settlin'  down  to  your  business. 
Your  business  is  your  husband,  and  you  better  mind 
him." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  go  back  to  my  husband;  I 
do  want  to  go  to  Mr.  Imrie.  How  many  times  do 
I  have  to  tell  you?" 

"You  don't  have  to  tell  me  once;  but  there's  one 
thing  I  wisht  you'd  tell  me." 

"What's  that?" 

"That's  where  did  you  get  the  notion  that  what 
you  want  to  do  is  what  you  ought  to  do.  Most  of 
the  time  it's  the  exact  opposite.  You  take  my  ad 
vice,  and  suspicion  everything  you  want.  You 
leave  out  that  'I  want '  business  and  pay  a  little  more 
attention  to  'I  hadn't  ought  to.'  Look  what  you've 
had,  Coralie.  You've  been  Bevans  and  Braisted 
and  Crofoot,  and  you  want  to  be  Imrie — and  I'm 
still  old  Miss  Posey.  You  got  children  and  looks 
and  money.  And  what  have  I  got?  O'  course  you'll 
say  a  homely  old  thing  like  me  's  got  no  right  to 
those  things,  but  it's  not  fair  that  you  should  have 
all  the  good  looks  and  all  the  husbands  in  the  world. 
You've  got  children,  and  they've  grown  past  bein' 
toys  for  you  to  play  with.  They  got  rights,  and  it's 
high  time  you  was  teachin'  them  their  hadn't-ought- 
tos  and  their  I-wants.  They'll  keep  you  busy  if 
you'll  tend  to  'em  instead  of  gallivantin'  all  over  the 
country  with  that  swindlin',  lyin',  sneakin'  Bruce 
Imrie. 

"It  won't  be  long  before  he'll  see  some  other  woman 
that's  pirtier  than  you  are,  because  they  keep 
making  the  pirty  ones  fresh  every  day.  Then  he'll 
say  'I  want  it,'  and  throw  you  into  the  ash  barrel. 

374 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

And  what  right  11  you  have  to  complain,  for  you'll 
find  in  that  same  barrel  the  children  and  the  husband 
you  threw  there  yourself." 

For  the  first  time  Coralie  compared  herself  with 
Clarastella,  as  a  human  being  equally  eager  for  the 
riches  of  experience.  She  had  assumed  that  Clara- 
Stella  had  not  lived  because  she  lacked  the  will  and 
enthusiasm.  She  had  known,  as  everybody  in  town 
had  known,  that  Hod  Clum's  mother  had  kept  him 
from  marrying  Clarastella.  She  had  seen  that  they 
took  the  matter  with  outward  calm.  Therefore  she 
rated  their  martyrdom  as  indifference.  Their  elope 
ment  and  marriage  would  have  been  so  easy  and 
lawful  an  adventure  that  their  failure  to  take  it 
seemed  mere  cowardice. 

Now  she  realized  that  they  had  not  let  I-ought- 
not  wait  upon  I-want,  because  they  had  accepted 
the  demands  of  another  as  their  own  duty.  That 
was  the  true  altruism. 

And  now  Coralie  saw  also  herself  otherwise,  no 
longer  as  one  whom  life  had  used  cruelly  and  denied 
much,  but  as  a  glutton  whom  nothing  could  appease. 
Her  romantic  tears  and  wails  for  Bruce  Imrie  be 
came  the  contemptible  whining  of  a  greedy  feeder 
calling,  "More!  More!"  and  never,  "Enough!" 

She  had  always  spilled  the  sweets  she  had  in 
clutching  at  those  that  were  beautiful,  because  they 
were  at  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

She  compared  her  gormandizing  with  the  husks 
that  Clarastella  had  chosen.  Coralie  decided  that 
it  was  time  to  push  back  from  the  feast  and  get  to 
work. 

'I'll  go  home,"  she  sighed,  and  Clarastella  caught 
her  in  her  arms  with  sudden  love.      Coralie  added: 

375 


"MOMMA" 

"But  how  can  I  get  back?  My  husband  is  an 
awful  strict  man." 

Now  that  they  were  on  this  lofty  moral  plateau  it 
seemed  impossible  to  deal  otherwise  than  honestly. 
So  Clarastella  urged : 

"Go  to  your  husband  and  tell  him  the  truth,  and 
ask  him  to  forgive  you." 

She  felt  Coralie's  lithe  body  turn  to  marble  in  her 
embrace,  and  she  heard  the  old  accent  again  in 
Coralie's  voice: 

"I  wouldn't  ask  the  old  miser  for  forgiveness  if 
it  was  the  last  act  of  my  life!  I'd  rather  die.  And 
if  I  did  ask  him  he'd  turn  me  out,  or  else  all  my  life 
he'd  treat  me  like  dirt." 

Clarastella  groaned.  Folks  were  hard  to  manage. 
Angels  are  not  made  out  of  folks  all  at  once,  and 
angels  have  to  be  among  angels  to  shine.  Clara 
stella  felt  that  Coralie  was  right  about  old  Alex. 
The  erring  wife  was  not  yet  saint  enough  to  drop 
to  her  knees,  and  if  she  did  the  husband  was  not 
saint  enough  to  lift  her  up. 

A  trick  would  have  to  be  played.  It  would  take 
time  to  work  one  out.  She  looked  at  the  wax-wan 
beauty  and  said: 

"You'd  ought  to  lay  down,  Coralie.  You're  just 
naturally  wore  out.  Get  off  your  shoes  and  corsets 
and  stretch  out  on  my  bed!" 

Coralie  was  reformed  enough  to  murmur : 

"But  what '11  you  do?" 

"Oh,  I'll  take  the  sofa.  It's  fine.  I  always  use  it 
when  I  take  a  nap." 

The  much-married  Coralie  crept  into  the  old 
maid's  bed  and  fell  asleep.  Clarastella  always  hated 
the  horse-hair  sofa,  and  it  hated  her.  It  was  a 

376 


YOU  HADNT  OUGHT  TO 

slippery  perch  that  seemed  to  be  always  trying  to 
slide  her  to  the  floor.  But  she  kept  herself  aboard 
and  somehow  resumed  her  sleep.  When  she  woke 
her  plan  lay  all  ready-made  in  the  back  of  her 
head. 

She  washed  her  face  and  hands  and  tidied  up  her 
hair.  She  took  a  peek  at  Coralie  and  found  her  as 
pretty  and  innocent  as  any  dreaming  child — as  per 
haps  she  was. 

Clarastella  went  to  her  mother  and  found  her  just 
groaning  out  of  bed.  Clarastella  pushed  her  back. 

"Don't  get  up,  maw!    Stay  right  there!" 

"Why?" 

"Maw,  you're  awful  sick," 

"I  am  not." 

"You  got  to  be." 

"Why?" 

"I  'ain't  got  time  to  explain  till  later.  But  you 
been  awful  sick  all  night  and  Coralie  Crofoot  has 
nursed  you." 

"I  haven't  laid  eyes  on  her." 

"She's  in  my  bed  now,  all  fagged  out  from  nursin' 
you.  You  do  as  I  tell  you,  and  tell  anybody  that 
asks  what  I  told  you." 

Then  Clarastella  walked  out. 

She  left  her  mother  convinced  that  one  or  the 
other  was  insane.  Then  she  stole  out  of  the  door  to 
invade  the  awful  presence  of  Alex  Crofoot.  She 
saw  him  coming  along  the  street.  He  was  haggard 
and  ashen  and  his  step  was  feeble. 

Alexander  the  Tight  had  had  a  bad  night.  The 
beauty  that  he  prized  in  his  way,  with  all  the  soul 
he  had,  had  been  absent  from  his  home.  Suspicions 
and  dark  plans  of  divorce  had  given  him  no  comfort. 

377 


"MOMMA" 

He  did'  not  want  an  ugly  revenge;  he  wanted  his 
pretty  wife.  He  cherished  her  as  miserly  as  his 
gold,  and  now  she  was  gone.  The  town  would  laugh 
at  him.  He  felt  wrecked  and  abandoned. 

Clarastella  hailed  him  as  he  passed  her  gate.  She 
took  her  lies  with  a  rush. 

"Mornin',  Mr.  Crofoot,  I  was  just  on  my  way  to 
your  house.  I'm  afraid  you  been  worryin'  about 
your  wife.  Fact  is,  my  mother  was  taken  awful 
bad  all  of  a  sudden  last  night,  and  I  run  over  to  your 
house  to  ask  Coralie  to  let  me  telephone  for  a  doctor, 
and  she  insisted  on  comin'  right  over.  She  didn't 
think  to  leave  word,  and  we  kep*  workin'  over 
mother  all  night." 

Alex  muttered,  "I  saw  the  lights  goin'  in  your 
house,  but  I  never  thought — " 

"This  morning  Coralie  was  so  dead  beat  I  just 
put  her  to  bed  in  my  bed.  I  hope  you  and  the  chil 
dren  haven't  worried,  but  she's  certainly  been  our 
salvation.  And  maw's  consid'able  better." 

Old  Alex  Crofoot  was  '^clinging  to  the  palings  and 
wavering  for  a  fall.  His  heartless,  sinful,  runaway 
wife  was  to  be  restored  to  him  in  the  guise  of  a 
ministering  nun.  If  he  had  known  how  he  would 
have  sent  up  three  cheers  and  wept.  As  it  was,  his 
hard  old  eyes  minted  two  or  three  tears.  They  fell 
from  the  slots  like  nickels. 

Nothing  would  do  but  that  he  should  come  in  to 
verify  Clarastella's  fairy  story.  He  followed  so 
closely  that  he  caught  Mrs.  Posey  out  in  her  night 
gowns 

Clarastella  screamed: 

"Maw,  how  dare  you  be  out  of  your  bed.  I  de 
clare  you're  demented." 

378 


YOU  HADNT  OUGHT  TO 

Mrs.  Posey  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  limp  -out 
rheumatically,  and  to  cough  with  appalling  ardor. 

Clarastella  gave  Alex  a  stout  chair  and  went  to 
wake  Coralie.  She  held  her  hand  over  Coralie's 
mouth  while  she  told  the  situation.  Then  she  .made 
Coralie  get  up  and  dress.  By  the  time  Coralie  was 
ready  old  Alex  was  as  impatient  as  a  Romeo  and 
he  embraced  her  with  an  ardor  hitherto  unknown. 
He  wept  a  little  better  now  and  Clarastella  was  re 
joiced  to  see  Coralie's  face  soften  with  a  hint  of  pity. 
He  could  not  expect  love,  but  it  is  much  if  a  woman 
will  have  a  little  mercy  for  her  husband. 

Coralie  was  now  in  haste  to  get  home  and  comfort 
her  terrified  children,  and  Clarastella  was  further 
encouraged  Two  emotions  and  a  comfortable  house 
ought  to  make  a  marriage  last  awhile. 

She  invited  the  Crofoots  to  stay  to  breakfast,  but 
they  declined  with  thanks,  and  she  watched  them 
scurrying  home  as  if  they  were  two  of  her  own  chil 
dren  setting  out  for  school — a  hard  school,  but  a 
school. 


VIII 


Clarastella  was  frantic  now  to  tell  Hod  Clum  of 
her  triumph  as  a  match  mender.  She  wondered  why 
he  did  not  drop  round  to  inquire.  There  was  no 
telephone  in  her  house  or  she  would  have  called  him 
up.  When  she  could  stand  the  strain  no  longer  she 
resolved  to  walk  past  the  livery  stable  on  a  chance 
of  seeing  him.  If  he  were  not  there  she  might  ven 
ture  on  to  the  dreadful  realm  of  the  deepo. 

As  she  passed  the  stable,  Hod's  man,  old  Bud 
Shorthouse,  who  always  looked  as  if  the  horses  used 

379 


"  MOMMA" 

him  for  target  practice  with  their  hoofs,  was  washing 
a  buggy. 

He  gave  an  indication  of  touching  his  hat,  and 
stared  at  her  very  solemnly. 

After  a  fierce  battle  Clarastella  spoke  to  him  in  a 
most  un-old-maidenly  manner. 

"Mr.  Clum  ain't  round?" 

' '  Oh  no,  ma'am.     He's  not  be'n  down  's  mornin' ! ' ' 

"He's  not  sick?" 

"No'm." 

"Is  his  mother?" 

"No." 

"What's  the  matter  of  him,  then?" 

"His  mother's  dead,  ma'm." 

"Dead!" 

"Yes'm.  She  was  right  poorly  all  evenin'  and  he 
was  late  gittin'  home.  When  he  got  there  she 
brightened  up  right  smart,  they  tell  me.  But  she 
begun  to  weaken.  Heart  failure  it  was,  the  doctor 
was  tellin'  me." 

"Did  she  suffer  much?" 

"No'm.  Doctor  said  she  was  holdin'  on  to  Hod's 
hand,  and  then  she  wanted  to  breathe,  and  he  helped 
her  to  set  up  and  put  the  pillers  back  of  her,  and  all 
of  a  sudden  she  says,  'Holt  on  to  me  tight,  honey'; 
and  Hod  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  she  says,  'You 
been  a  good  boy,  honey,'  and  she  smiled,  and — then 
just  naturally  died.  Yes'm,  so  the  doctor  was  tellin' 
me." 

He  returned  to  his  buggy  washing,  his  eyes  drip 
ping  like  sponges;  and  he  was  cursing  them  under 
his  breath. 

There  is  no  loneliness  like  the  loneliness  when  a 
strong  enemy  has  left  the  field.  Clarastella  felt  as 

380 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

if  all  the  people  and  houses  and  trees  had  been  re 
moved  from  the  earth  and  she  left.  Old  Mrs. 
Clum  was  no  longer  against  her. 

Her  first  thought  was  one  of  pity  for  the  poor  old 
soul  wrenched  from  the  world.  Then  she  smiled  to 
think  that  Hod  had  been  with  her  and  had  won  the 
rare  accolade  of  her  blessing  for  his  fidelity.  And  then 
the  tears  came  pattering,  as  she  thought  of  his  grief. 

She  wondered  what  to  do.  Impulse  said,  "Go  to 
him,  help  him."  Habit  said:  "Keep  away.  Mrs. 
Clum  don't  want  you  round." 

She  went  back  home.  She  tried  to  write.  Her 
fingers  kept  forgetting  that  the  pen  was  not  a  needle. 
What  was  the  use?  Hod  knew  as  well  as  she  did 
what  she  felt.  When  he  wanted  to  see  her  or  hear 
her  voice  he  knew  well  enough  where  to  find  her. 

And  so,  as  almost  always  for  herself,  Clarastella 
chose  the  negative,  the  self-denying  alternative. 

She  did  not  see  Hod  Clum  for  weeks.  The  old 
lady  had  her  way  more  than  ever  now.  Clarastella 
did  not  miss  Hod  so  much  on  ordinary  evenings,  but 
on  Thursday  and  Sunday  evenings  it  was — she  ad 
mitted  it  to  Coralie — it  was  kind  of  lonesome  round 
the  house.  Worst  was  the  feeling  that  Hod  must 
be  'most  as  lonesome  as  what  she  was.  But  he  would 
feel  that  he  hadn't  ought  to  go  calling  so  soon  after 
the  funeral,  and  him  taking  the  funeral  so  hard,  his 
horses  still  all  wearing  little  black  ribbons. 

One  lonely,  lonely  Thursday  evening,  when  the 
plang  of  the  church  bell  was  sorrowful  beyond  the 
bearing,  Clarastella  heard  a  familiar  footfall  on  the 
boardwalk  outside.  She  dared  not  look,  lest  it  be 
only  imagination. 

The  next  Sunday  evening  she  heard  it  again.  She 
381 


"MOMMA" 

peeked  through  the  blinds  and  saw  Hod  pacing  up 
and  down.  She  dared  not  step  out  on  the  porch,  lest 
he  go  away.  She  watched  him  from  behind  the  cur 
tains,  and  her  tears  dropped  one  by  one,  as  slowly  as 
his  footfalls. 

The  next  Thursday  evening  she  was  on  the  porch 
when  he  went  by.  He  waved  his  hand  at  her,  but 
did  not  come  back.  But  the  second  Thursday  he 
could  not  help  but  turn  in. 

His  words  were : 

"I  don't  guess  maw  would  mind,  seeing  as  it's 
prayer-meetin*  evenin'." 

"I  don't  guess  she  would,"  Clarastella  murmured, 
meekly.  "Set  down,  won't  you,  Hod?" 

He  sat  down.  After  a  silence  he  began  to  talk,  to 
talk  about  the  forbidden  subject — his  mother — to 
tell  how  good  she  had  been,  how  anxious  for  him, 
how  jealous,  how  interesting  a  talker,  and  what  a 
sense  of  humor  she  had  had. 

Clarastella  felt  a  great  tenderness  welling  in  her 
for  the  poor  gone  soul  that  had  loved  too  well  and 
wanted  love  too  much,  and  had  only  had  the  one 
love  to  draw  on. 

"I'm  glad  we  let  her  have  her  way,"  she  said,  and 
meant  it. 

And  now  the  old  lady  seemed  to  be  satisfied.  Her 
opposition  melted  impalpably  away.  She  came,  as 
it  were,  to  call  on  the  Poseys,  to  sit  and  beam  upon 
her  son  and  upon  the  woman  who  should  look  after 
his  comfort,  for  she  loved  her  son  too  well  to  want 
him  homeless  now. 

With  a  very  gradual  progress  the  marriage  plans 
of  Clarastella  and  Hod  began  to  return  to  their 
thoughts,  then  to  their  speech. 

382 


YOU  HADN'T  OUGHT  TO 

Of  course  they  had  to  wait  the  year  out,  and  it 
was  a  long  year — one  of  the  longest  of  recent  years — 
but  at  last  it  was  gone. 

At  last  Clarastella  could  be  seen  waist  deep  sew 
ing  on  a  wedding  dress  of  her  very  own.  It  was  not 
white  satin.  She  did  not  want  to  look  as  foolish  as 
all  that  came  to. 

Coralie  Crofoot  wanted  to  buy  her  white  satin,  but 
Clarastella  was  wise.  The  wedding,  she  knew,  would 
be  joke  enough  to  the  town. 

And  it  was.  It  was  a  huge  joke.  Everybody 
went  to  the  church,  invited  or  not.  People  said  that 
Hod  was  a  bridegroom,  with  the  accent  on  the 
"groom."  In  his  "Prince  Albert"  he  certainly 
looked  every  inch  the  livery-stable  keeper.  And  the 
poor  little  old  maid  at  his  side  looked  more  an  old 
maid  than  ever. 

Two  or  three  of  the  women  in  the  pews  were  pur 
ple  with  amusement,  and  several  of  the  youngsters 
giggled  so  that  they  had  to  run  out  of  church.  As 
the  newly  hitched  team  walked  down  the  aisle  and 
out  of  the  inferno  of  embarrassment,  there  was  an 
audible  snicker  back  of  them.  But  Coralie  Crofoot 
said: 

"I  envy  Clarastella." 


THE    END 


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